


Versus

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Casual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rivalry, also they are SWITCHES!, it is a Sex Competition. I wish I was kidding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’m a decent kisser?”“Oh, I’m totally happy to accept you bein’decent,” says Atsumu, obligingly. “As long as we both agree that I’d bebetter.”Pausing, Sakusa turns to face him, something combative entering his narrowed eyes. “I never said I agree to that.”It's a terrible formula, when you think about it. Miya Atsumu, proud and competitive; Sakusa Kiyoomi, who can't bear to leave things half-finished; and the all-important question of who's better in bed.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 212
Kudos: 813
Collections: Anonymous





	1. 0-0

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymising because this is mostly for practice & I cannot in any way guarantee quality (in other words please do not roast me) or a regular update schedule. Read at your own risk. A healthy suspension of disbelief recommended for fuller enjoyment of what is prima facie a ludicrous trope that I am truly pushing to the absolute limits here. My apologies in advance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW // alcohol consumption (legal & moderate)

In hindsight, maybe it’s all sort of inevitable, given the circumstances that lead up to it.

All of them are tipsy, for one. Not _smashed_ , of course—they can’t afford to do that too often, as athletes—but tipsy enough to be slightly more loose-lipped, slightly more brazen than usual. Everyone sitting scattered around Bokuto and Akaashi’s living room, most of them on the floor, Atsumu sprawled on a couch and Sakusa tucked neatly into a nearby armchair. The team’s chatter ebbing and flowing noisily.

Atsumu’s in conversation with Hinata and Bokuto, who are sitting with their backs against the couch he’s draped across. They’re talking about stupid trivial things: who in the Jackals would be likeliest to end up arrested (Bokuto, but only because he’d be the worst at covering up after himself) and who would get a tattoo on the strangest part of their body (“me,” Hinata had admitted, “though I bet it would be by accident”). Atsumu’s feeling exceedingly comfortable, and warm, and sort of fuzzy around the edges, so he figures he’ll toss out into the mix something a little more fun.

So he stretches his arms out above his head, yawns once, and then says, “Okay, then. Who d’you think you’d pin as the best kisser on the team?”

Bokuto’s brows immediately furrow in concentration, Hinata humming thoughtfully beside him. Atsumu, generous as he is, allows them about two and a half seconds to pretend to consider it before jumping in breezily: “Well, I mean, obviously I reckon _I’d_ have a good shot at that title, wouldn’t ya say?”

And—given who he’s talking to—they probably would’ve been happy to just go along and agree with him, too. That is, if it hadn’t been for Sakusa simultaneously deciding to say in a voice so monotonous it’s almost hilariously at odds with the content of his words, “I think it’s possible that’d be me.”

All three of them turn to look at him in astonishment. Yes, Atsumu had known he could _hear_ them—he’d been speaking loud enough for that, because he knows Sakusa likes to listen in even when he doesn’t participate—but he hadn’t thought they’d ever get an actual voiced opinion out of him. He’d figured Sakusa was just eavesdropping and silently judging them.

Hinata’s the first to recover from the initial surprise. “Well, I guess Omi-san _is_ quite talented at everything he tries, when you think about it! I could see you being good at just about anything.”

“Ooh, that’s true, that’s _true_.” Bokuto mostly just sounds elated that Sakusa’s taking part in the discussion at all. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to brag about it, though! Is it—like—a point of pride for you?”

At this point, Atsumu still finds himself unable to do anything but to continue simply staring, dumbfounded, at Sakusa, who is calmly nursing his glass as though he hasn't just dropped that bomb on them. Is he—drunker than he looks, maybe? He definitely isn’t sober. He’s been drinking all night with the rest of them, and in any case, there is absolutely _no way_ a sober Sakusa Kiyoomi would’ve said what he just said.

Sakusa eyes them all, impassive. After a moment his shoulders lift minutely in a tiny shrug. “I’m not trying to ‘brag’. I’m just basing it objectively off… past feedback.”

Okay, what the fuck?! Are they seriously having this conversation right now?

“ _Wow_! Omi-san, you’ve been told more than once that you’re a good kisser?”

And really, Atsumu’s beginning to think this entire thing might just be a drunken hallucination, because when Sakusa replies, the steadiness of his gaze doesn’t so much as flicker. “Hm. Well. Not specifically. But I think kissing would logically be included in the activities I _was_ being complimented for.”

Hinata’s eyes widen. Bokuto’s jaw drops. Atsumu, ever so elegantly, inhales all his saliva.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, _wait_ ,” he manages to choke out anyway, because there is no way on God’s green earth that he’s letting that one slip by unquestioned. “You’re sayin’—wait— _you_? Really?”

Immediately, and even though his eyes are still round as saucers and glued on Sakusa, Hinata pipes up to say, “Don’t sound so shocked, Atsumu-san, it’s rude.”

“Yeah, but—c’mon, seriously, you guys aren’t— _him_?” He gestures wildly at the tidy, stoic way Sakusa still has himself folded into the armchair, not a hair out of place. “ _You_?”

Sakusa regards him with tangible disdain. “Just because you’re a conceited brat who feels the need to gloat about your exploits every second day, Miya, doesn’t mean we all are. Some people prefer _not_ to kiss and tell.”

At that, Bokuto (the damn traitor, not a loyal bone in his body, _honestly_ ) dissolves into startled chortling, reaching up to the couch to give Atsumu a good-natured punch in the leg. “I think you might’ve lost this one, Tsum-Tsum, sorry.”

“Like hell I have!” There’s heat already rising in his face, though whether it’s from aggravation or embarrassment it’s kind of hard to tell. He indignantly lifts himself into a sitting position and jabs a surly finger in Sakusa’s general direction. “I am _not_ losing this to _you_ of all people.”

Sakusa just rolls his eyes.

Atsumu bristles. “Oi, don’t you _roll your eyes_ at me—!”

“Aaand there’s our cue to wrap things up,” says Meian from his spot by the coffee table, picking up his empty beer can and flattening it down against the floorboards. “Inside voice, Atsumu, _please_. And—does everyone have a way to get home?”

In the kerfuffle that follows as everyone hauls themselves to their feet, Atsumu stays half-reclined on the couch and glowers at Sakusa as he gets up to quietly start gathering all their discarded food wrappers. They always get the same taxi home from these things—an unavoidable arrangement of convenience given that they live a five-minute walk away from one another—but Atsumu’s almost annoyed enough right now to consider copping the extra cost of getting his own ride.

Almost. Except he _does_ feel the competing need to clarify first, once and for all, that he most definitely has not lost a single thing tonight, thank you very much.

By the time Sakusa straightens from stacking up the empty cups on top of the coffee table, everyone else has already shuffled out in their twos and threes to carpool home. Bokuto’s disappeared into his bedroom to no doubt go and bother a poor half-asleep Akaashi. The living room is empty save for the two of them.

“I’m ready to go if you are,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu ignores it completely and fixes him with a suspicious squint instead. “You were tryin’ to be funny, right?” He phrases it like a question but he’s half-convinced himself that he’s right already. “Before. You were jokin’.”

Sakusa looks largely unperturbed as he reaches for the sweater he left hanging on the back of the armchair. “I don’t joke about being good at things.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t _usually_ , but—I just can’t buy it. I mean—it’s _you_. No offence, Omi-kun.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’m a decent kisser?”

“Oh, I’m totally happy to accept you bein’ _decent_ ,” says Atsumu, obligingly. “As long as we both agree that I’d be _better_.”

Pausing, Sakusa turns to face him, something combative entering his narrowed eyes. “I never said I agree to that.”

“Omi. C’mon. Let’s be real for a second.” Atsumu smirks at him. “You might be decent, sure. Y’might even be good. But we’re talkin’ about _me_ here.”

“I have genuinely never met anyone more self-absorbed than you in my entire life,” Sakusa tells him, and Atsumu feels his smirk only widen.

“Deny it all ya want,” he says airily. “As long as my point’s been made. I’ve not _lost_ to you.”

One of Sakusa’s eyebrows rises in obvious derision. “You say that with a lot of conviction for someone who’s yet to prove a single one of their claims.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be callin’ over any of my past hookups to come give their affidavits,” Atsumu drawls, getting to his feet, tucking his phone in his back pocket. “So you’ll just have to take my word for it for now, Omi-kun.”

The look that Sakusa gives him screams _as if I’d take your word for anything_. But he doesn’t actually verbalise it. Feeling like the balance has shifted well back into his favour, Atsumu shrugs on his jacket and grins, wondering whether he should wind him up just a _tad_ more now that he’s got the upper hand.

“Or, what?” he taunts, stepping right into Sakusa’s personal space to lure him into snapping back. “Are you askin’ me to prove it right now?”

Sakusa regards him silently for a moment, looking down at him with his eyebrow still raised, the scorn in his expression not quite managing to mask the flash of competitiveness that skitters across his face. The Jackals might always make a big deal out of Atsumu picking fights—but really, it’s Sakusa that never _backs_ _down_ from one. Both of them are physically incapable of giving up the final word.

And, look, Atsumu doesn’t really know what he’d expected Sakusa to throw back at him in response. Part of the fun is in seeing what they each come up with on any given day—biting comebacks—clever insults—fresh quips. Whatever it is he might’ve vaguely predicted for _this_ time, though, it certainly isn’t what he gets.

Holding his gaze, dark eyes cool and unflinching, Sakusa says, “Sure.”

The word drifts down to settle over them heavily. Atsumu blinks, stunned.

Sakusa adds dispassionately, “Prove it right now if you can, then.”

“You—” Atsumu’s tongue feels twisted in his mouth. “—wait, what?”

The corner of Sakusa’s mouth quirks up, smug. “Mm. I thought not.”

Wait. Hang on. Did he just get baited?

“…Sorry, I didn’t hear myself sayin’ no,” Atsumu says, managing to pull off what is, in his humble opinion, an impressively fast recovery. He doesn’t even pause to think about what murky territory they’re wading into. This is nothing more than a game of chicken, really, and—whatever happens—he _won’t_ be the one to concede.

Taking another step closer and tilting his chin up in defiance, Atsumu whispers with obnoxious exaggeration, “I could take your _breath_ away if I wanted to, Omi-kun.”

Yet Sakusa still doesn’t step away. In fact, the challenge doesn’t leave his expression even for a moment. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, yeah, really? Wanna bet?”

“I thought I already said,” Sakusa deadpans, the shadows of his face deepening in the low light, “ _sure_.”

Atsumu’s heartbeat is accelerating in his chest. The room is way too quiet. They’re not drunk enough to justify what’s on the verge of happening. One of them has to cave. _One of them has to cave._

“Okay, then,” Atsumu hears himself say, and then reaches up to kiss him.

For the first couple of seconds, his brain barely even comprehends what it is exactly that he’s doing. And then it hits him all at once with all the force of a boxing glove to the stomach: _oh, God, I’m kissing Sakusa Kiyoomi._ And—perhaps even more unbelievably—Sakusa Kiyoomi is kissing him back. His lips are soft and pliant and warm and seriously, for real, are kissing Atsumu back.

Um. Wasn’t he—didn’t he have a point to prove, here?

Ah, _yes_. Atsumu raises a hand to Sakusa’s collar, grabs the cotton V-neck, and yanks him down commandingly. No reason to treat this differently to any other pair of lips, he figures. He knows what people like—why should Sakusa be an exception? Bold and immodest as always, Atsumu runs his tongue along the supple skin of Sakusa’s lips, licking at them once before tugging lightly with his teeth. Sakusa’s mouth still tastes of apple cider and fruit slices. Heat radiates from his body where they almost touch.

And then, before Atsumu really has a chance to register that it’s happening, Sakusa slips an arm behind his waist, pulls him close, and winds the other hand around the back of his neck to tilt his head further. Caught off-guard, Atsumu tightens his grip on Sakusa’s shirt to avoid losing his balance; Sakusa snatches up the fleeting millisecond of weakness without hesitation.

He leans into Atsumu assertively, sucking his bottom lip gently into his mouth. Every gesture of his tongue is unhurried and measured in a way that _really_ shouldn’t be as hot as it is. All at once it feels like he’s drawing all the air out of Atsumu’s lungs and stealing it—inhaling it himself—robbing him of oxygen, their lips slick against one another, erupting with a numb heat. Atsumu’s being consumed with heady deliberateness, millimetre by millimetre. The hand pressed to his back is almost scalding. His spine is tingling. His _legs_ are tingling.

…Oh, _fuck_. Sakusa Kiyoomi _is_ a good kisser.

Atsumu makes a brief attempt to regain some semblance of authority over the kiss—really, he does. But Sakusa’s breath tangles hotly in his mouth, and his lips are relentless, his tongue dizzyingly sweet. When Atsumu gasps out a breathless moan in spite of himself, Sakusa swallows it right down without missing a beat. And then leans further forward again. Atsumu scrabbles for purchase on his shoulders and hangs on.

They’re in Bokuto and Akaashi’s living room still, he realises dimly. They’re standing in the living room where his friend could literally walk back in any second, and he’s making out with his teammate because neither one of them could bite back their stupid pride, and now, to top it all off, he’s starting to get turned on. Oh God. _God_.

He tries to say Sakusa’s name. His vocal cords aren’t working properly. Sakusa breaks the kiss anyway, but brings his mouth instead to Atsumu’s jaw, his throat, the crook of his neck. Then he’s lifting his head to recapture Atsumu’s lips between his teeth, not giving him a moment to gather himself. A tiny syrupy burst of pain prickles through Atsumu’s bottom lip. He only barely manages to choke back an embarrassing whimper. Sakusa bites down again mercilessly.

And— _shit_. Fuck. Is—is either one of them going to stop? Or are they seriously just going to keep—?

As though reading his mind, however, Sakusa chooses this very moment to draw away from him, _slowly_. Atsumu releases a shaky exhale as he lets his eyes flutter open and drop to the glistening trail of saliva that clings between their lips. He can barely feel his own mouth; it feels swollen, bruised. And, somewhat horrifyingly, arousal is just about _burning_ between his legs.

“Miya,” he hears Sakusa say, his voice low.

Atsumu looks back up at him dazedly. He feels winded—can he even speak right now? Effortfully, he tries to steady his shallow panting, meeting Sakusa’s eyes without a word. The hand on his back still hasn’t moved away.

Sakusa gives him an insincere smile. “I thought you said _you_ were going to take _my_ breath away?”

…What?

 _Oh_.

Oh—right. He was—yes. There was. A point to this.

“I suppose that means I win after all,” adds Sakusa. Then he unwinds his arm from around Atsumu’s waist at last.

And immediately—in what is possibly the most mortifying moment of Miya Atsumu’s entire existence—his knees buckle beneath him, jelly-weak without the support of Sakusa’s hand, the deep angle of his back completely unstable. Sakusa reaches out reflexively to grab his arm again but doesn’t quite catch it in time to stop him from stumbling. It only takes a split second for Atsumu to end up half-slumped on the floor on his knees, one arm held up clumsily by Sakusa’s left hand, his feet stinging with pins and needles as the blood finally rushes back into them.

Oh my God. This cannot be happening to him right now. He did not just end up on the floor from a _kiss_. Especially not at the hands of—

“Oh! You guys still haven’t left?”

Heart lurching, Atsumu scrambles unsteadily to his feet as Bokuto pulls the bedroom door quietly closed behind him and steps back into the living room. From beside him, Sakusa says smoothly, “I was just clearing some of the rubbish away, and then Miya said he wasn’t feeling very well, so I was watching him for a minute.”

“Ah, right, okay! You good now, Tsum?”

“He’s fine,” says Sakusa, before Atsumu can even open his mouth. “Just catching his breath.”

His tone is mostly expressionless, but lined with a suggestiveness that is probably only obvious to the two of them. Atsumu glowers at him. Sakusa ignores it. “We’ll be heading off now, then. Thanks for having us."

The wait outside on the pavement for a taxi is excruciating—there’s no other word for it. Sakusa might not be crowing and preening like Atsumu might be if their positions were reversed, but his offhandedness about the whole thing is somehow equally infuriating, if not more.

After two minutes of total silence, Atsumu finally bursts out, unable to help himself, “This doesn’t actually _count_ , y'know.”

Sakusa glances at him indifferently. “What are you on about _now_?”

“It’s just kissin’,” Atsumu rambles, “plus I’m way drunker than you. Which is why I. Well. Anyway, it doesn’t count. This doesn’t even prove you’re better at—at anythin’ else.”

“Know when to graciously admit defeat, Miya. Nobody likes a sore loser.”

“I’m _not_ a—God, you’re so _annoyin_ ’!” Atsumu furiously flags down an approaching taxi and throws Sakusa a mulish glare as he yanks the front door open. “You just—you just _wait_ , Sakusa Kiyoomi—you’re gonna regret this—”

“Am I, now.”

“Yes, you will,” Atsumu snaps, slamming his door shut as Sakusa slides gingerly into the backseat. “I’ll _prove_ it to you. Properly this time. I _swear_ on it.”

The back door closes too. Atsumu glances up at the rearview mirror, still fuming, and happens to catch Sakusa’s eyes; they’re half-shadowed, but lit just enough by the nearby neons of the city for Atsumu not to miss the haughty belligerence that glitters in them. It’s the exact same gleam he’d seen there earlier. Or, more accurately, it’s the same gleam that’s always there somewhere in Sakusa’s eyes, that competitive greed, that thing that probably makes the two of them more alike than Atsumu would like to admit.

“Alright, Miya,” says Sakusa finally, as the taxi slowly pulls away from the curb. “Just make sure you don’t eat those words right back up later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ……………And So The Chaos Begins……………


	2. 0-1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he’s got to do is stick to the plan; the thought helps chase away some of his jumpiness. He just has to relax—chill out—keep things cool.
> 
> “So I was thinkin’ maybe I get you off with a handjob,” he announces as he walks out of the bathroom, maybe a touch too loud. Sakusa looks up in disconcertion from where he’s pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen. When he doesn’t say anything, Atsumu adds, by way of explanation, “I’m good at them.”
> 
> “That… wasn’t really what I was going to ask,” says Sakusa, slowly.

There are three takeaways that Miya Atsumu has from the night of The Incident:

  1. Sakusa Kiyoomi is (regrettably) a half-decent kisser;
  2. He is currently winning this—this… whatever the hell _this_ is; and
  3. It is of absolute and utmost importance that he is not allowed to continue winning it.



(2) doesn’t pose that many problems in and of itself. Nobody else is actually aware of that particular fact, which means Atsumu’s pride is still mostly intact, aside from the very slight private blow that he’s taken to his self-image. Plus, (2) is subject to the asterisk of it not having really been a level playing field, Atsumu tells himself. He was definitely the tipsier of the two of them. That obviously makes you more breathless: he’s pretty sure it’s science.

And—yeah—maybe he catches himself thinking about (1) perhaps a little more frequently than necessary, but again, that’s just a natural response. It’s natural for him to _wonder_ a little bit. Honestly, how and when did the guy get so good? Atsumu’s never seen Sakusa date anyone. Is he just taking home hookups all the time right under their noses while he acts like he’s above all that and is exclusively married to volleyball? The sly fox. He tries to bat away the sort of reluctant respect that the notion prompts within him.

As for (3)—well, that’s where things get a little harder. Atsumu may not be a mathematician, but he is a professional athlete, and he knows that if one player has a score of one then you can’t just match them to win the whole thing. He needs to beat Sakusa twice in a row to be able to claim that, and just for the sake of his own pride, he’d prefer that they were nice, clean, undeniable wins by a massive margin. Straight sets of twenty-five, if you will.

The problem is, he can’t quite find the right moment to bring it up. He obviously can’t in the middle of training: he’s not really that good at whispering, and besides, the one time he _does_ attempt to mention it during a break with other people around he gets such a stonily unimpressed look from Sakusa that he stops midway through a sentence and leaves it at that.

Eventually, Atsumu realises that the only option is to hover around for a little longer at the end of the day. Luckily for him, and perhaps coming as no real surprise to anyone, Sakusa has the longest post-training routine of the Jackals—meticulous stretches, fastidiously tidying all his things, sometimes even making time for a (lengthy) shower in the gym bathrooms if they’ve had a particularly tough one—so it’s no question that he’s almost always the last to leave.

Except today. Today, Atsumu sticks around.

He makes some dumb excuse not to leave with others—pretends he forgot something and dashes back while they all call out their goodbyes—and finds Sakusa, as expected, still in the changerooms. He glances up from his gym bag when he hears Atsumu come in and his expression immediately morphs into one of barely concealed suspicion. “…What.”

It only takes Atsumu half a second to trash the option of talking about it in a roundabout way. There's no reason for them to tiptoe around it, surely. “Look—I know you weren’t keen on chattin’ about it in the middle of trainin’, which. Yeah, fair enough.”

He pauses only for long enough to check Sakusa’s expression for any changes. It doesn’t even briefly waver. Right, okay, so they’re both perfectly aware what he’s talking about, then. He braces himself, pushes out the words in a bit of a rush: “But it’s not the middle of trainin’ now, is it?”

Having thrown it out there, tossed like a grenade that he’s now warily peeking at through hands over his eyes, Atsumu holds his breath and waits for Sakusa’s move. Sakusa stands perfectly still for a moment with one hand still hovering over the zipper of his bag. He looks almost completely disengaged from the conversation; only the perfect clarity of his dark eyes indicates that he’s thinking hard.

“Okay,” he says at last, and Atsumu knows the word carries the millions of racing thoughts that just passed through Sakusa’s mind. “Go ahead. Talk.”

Caught off-guard, Atsumu flounders momentarily. “Well, I—I kinda thought maybe _you’d_ have some stuff to say.”

“Why on earth would I have anything to say? You’re the one who wants to ‘chat’.”

“I mean, ‘cause. Well. Before—I s’pose you—you won. Though I still reckon it’s debatable, but whatever. So. Yeah.” He’s beginning to think he should’ve scripted out this conversation a bit more precisely in advance. Too late now, he laments. “I guess I thought maybe you’d wanna pick the next thing. Y’know. Bein’ the winner and all.”

Sakusa squints at him as though he can’t quite believe Atsumu’s being serious. “…What is this, getting to serve after scoring or something?”

“Yeah, alright, y’can shut up, Omi-kun,” Atsumu grouses, feeling his face heat. “If you’ve got a better rulebook for the—I dunno, the Sex—the Sex Championships—feel free to hand it over.”

At that, Sakusa looks blatantly appalled, his still-unzipped gym bag now long forgotten beneath him. “ _What_ did you just call it? Miya. Are you twelve?”

Frustrated at their utter lack of progress, Atsumu throws his hands up in defeat and gives up altogether on trying to be charitable. “Cut me a break, I was just offerin’ to let you pick! _Jeez_ , y’complain a lot.” He huffs out an annoyed breath between his teeth. “Okay. Whatever. _I’ll_ choose, then, if you’re gonna be difficult. Let’s go to yours. I think I know what we can do.”

With that, he walks over and resolutely zips up Sakusa’s gym bag for him, hitching it onto his own shoulder—mindful not to jostle its neatly-arranged contents too much—and heading for the door. “Y’drove, right?”

He hears Sakusa’s footsteps following him out of the changeroom, surprisingly without any further interrogation. When he does answer Atsumu’s question as they pass through the doorway, it’s in an entirely inexpressive voice, though whether that’s a deliberate choice or not is hard to tell. “Yes. I did.”

They don’t talk about it—or, really, anything—in the car. A strange sense of restlessness fills up the front seats, and Atsumu spends most of the drive watching Sakusa’s fingers clench and unclench around the steering wheel. It’s odd: he doesn’t think that either of them are _nervous_ about it, exactly. It feels more like they’re both simply struggling to grasp the reality of what it is they’re actually doing.

Not that that’s so strange, when he considers it. He’s not sure he could really give a good explanation of why they’re even doing these quote-unquote Sex Championships if anyone were to ask. God. The thought of ever actually being _asked_ about this makes him physically wince. He forces himself to dismiss the mental image as Sakusa switches gears to park.

Atsumu’s been to Sakusa’s place before. But never on his own. The pristine hush of it seems all the more acute when it’s not being blasted through with a fellow raucous teammate. He’s subdued in the entryway—toeing off his shoes for longer than he usually would—and he shuffles in with what he knows is uncharacteristic dithering, waiting awkwardly by the door as Sakusa flicks on the lights, puts his bag away, goes to wash his hands.

He doesn’t even realise he’s so on edge until Sakusa finally speaks and the suddenness of it makes him jump. “So. I drove us here like you asked.” Unlike Atsumu, who feels as though he’s only tensing up more and more by the minute, Sakusa looks far more relaxed than he had in the car, sounding almost blasé as he asks, “What are we doing, then?”

“Er,” says Atsumu. “Can I… quickly wash my hands first?”

Sakusa just blinks at him impassively for three silent seconds. Then he gestures in the direction of the bathroom with a minute tilt of his chin.

The cool rush of water over his hands is helpfully grounding, and Atsumu takes a moment to gather his wits. Okay. He’s mulled over this; knows what he wants to do here, based on the Venn diagram he’s charted up in his mind, looking for the right intersection between playing to his strengths and not pushing too many boundaries. Nice and simple, he’d decided on the drive here. All he’s got to do is stick to the plan; the thought helps chase away some of his jumpiness. He just has to relax—chill out—keep things cool.

“So I was thinkin’ maybe I get you off with a handjob,” he announces as he walks out of the bathroom, maybe a touch too loud. Sakusa looks up in disconcertion from where he’s pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen. When he doesn’t say anything, Atsumu adds, by way of explanation, “I’m good at them.”

“That… wasn’t really what I was going to ask,” says Sakusa, slowly. He almost overfills his glass and quickly stops pouring, reaching for a second one instead.

“What were you gonna ask, then?”

Sakusa throws him an unreadable look and then holds up one of the glasses for Atsumu, almost as though obliquely giving him permission to come closer. Atsumu approaches him and takes the offered glass carefully in both hands. Sakusa watches him drink it as he says, “How would that even work?”

“I thought y’said you’re _good_ at sex, Omi, how can y’not know what a—”

“I know what a handjob is, obviously,” Sakusa snaps, the _you idiot_ clear in his expression although he doesn’t voice it. “What I mean is—how can you even win at that?”

Oh. Hm.

Yeah, that’s—a good question, actually.

Atsumu ponders it for a moment while Sakusa looks on in obvious disdain. “You’re the one proposing this entire thing and you haven’t even thought that far?”

“Shush, Omi. I’m thinkin’.” Snapping his fingers, he drains the rest of his glass and puts it back down on the kitchen island triumphantly, turning back to face Sakusa. “Alright—this is smart. We’ll do it at the same time. Whoever makes the other one come first wins.”

He waits for Sakusa to raise an issue with it—after all, he’s genuinely never met anyone in his life better at finding things to criticise—but a beat passes, and then another, and no objection is made. And then, eventually, Sakusa gingerly puts down his own glass and says, “…I suppose that makes… sense.”

“ _Right_?! Told ya it was smart.” Grinning, Atsumu steps away from the kitchen and into the living room, sinking into the couch and making himself comfortable. Sakusa follows him somewhat sceptically; Atsumu pats the empty spot on the couch next to him, and Sakusa sits down.

“Go on then, Oh Masterful Kisser,” Atsumu says, only half-mocking. He ignores the way his heartbeat accelerates a fraction with anticipation. It’s nothing to do with kissing Sakusa, he assures himself, just the adrenaline gearing him up to win. “Time to set the mood, don’t ya think?”

He almost expects Sakusa to hesitate, but he only briefly raises a judgmental eyebrow at the nickname before he’s leaning in obligingly to capture Atsumu’s lips. All at once, fun fact (1) makes itself keenly known to him again. Sakusa’s lips are just as impossibly soft as last time, his tongue hot as it slips itself assertively into Atsumu’s mouth, pressing just gently enough to disarm him, just hard enough to be unmistakably suggestive. This time around Atsumu doesn’t bother trying to beat him at his game—figures there’s no real point in trying anyway—and simply leans back a little against the armrest to let himself be kissed however Sakusa pleases.

Sakusa seems to catch on to his compliance and he deepens the kiss at once. Atsumu's lips already feel slick, glossy with spit where Sakusa's swiping his tongue again and again, teasing prickles erupting below the gossamer-thin skin under the onslaught of nipping and suckling. It's all just as scarily capable of stealing the air from him as it had been that night. Atsumu tries to iron out the rhythm of his exhales as Sakusa draws his top lip into the wet heat of his mouth again. He _can't_ get worked up too quickly—it's embarrassing, sure. But it'll also be a handicap going into the actual jerking-off part.

One of Sakusa’s hands finds his chin like it did last time, angling it slightly as he props himself up against the armrest with the other. His fingers feel cool against Atsumu’s already rapidly-flushing skin. Winding his arms around Sakusa’s neck, Atsumu tangles his fingers into the mess of curls at the back of his head and tugs lightly, a spark of surprised satisfaction sizzling through him at the tiny inadvertent sound it produces somewhere deep in Sakusa’s throat. He knows at this point they’re both starting to get hard: their trackpants leave little to the imagination.

Alright, Atsumu, he tells himself sternly. You’ve gotten the breath kissed out of you— _again_ —so in a second it’s your chance to shine. _No_ fucking it up this time.

Cautiously, and slowly enough that he could easily be stopped at any point, Atsumu reaches down to palm at Sakusa’s groin. He immediately feels the warm breath against his lips catch. Not bothering to stifle his grin in response, Atsumu does it again —a little more firmly this time—and Sakusa huffs out a muffled little groan, the sound spilling over like he couldn’t quite manage to hold it back.

That drives Atsumu to move a tad more boldly, hooking his thumbs past the waistband of Sakusa’s trackpants, feeling for the cotton of his boxers underneath and pulling them both down to his thighs at once. Sakusa’s kissing falters at the swift gesture. The arm he’s using to prop himself up flexes beside Atsumu.

“What’s the hurry for?” he says into Atsumu’s mouth, sounding almost peeved.

Atsumu lets his grin widen and nibbles at Sakusa’s bottom lip. “What’s the _delay_ for?”

With an irked little _hmph_ , Sakusa reaches down now too, tugging Atsumu’s waistband down with one hand. Atsumu marvels at the impressive efficiency with which they’ve gotten to this point: both of them are already out of their pants, almost fully hard, lips starting to tingle with the force of their kissing. Well. He supposes neither of them have ever really been the type to beat around the bush unnecessarily.

Figuring he may as well steamroll on and make the first move, Atsumu curls his fingers around Sakusa’s cock unhesitatingly, relishing in the hiss it draws out of him. Sakusa has a pretty nice cock, he acknowledges grudgingly—it’s as long and pale and slender as the rest of him, flushed at the head, leaking just a little. Atsumu thumbs confidently at the precum beading at his slit.

Cursing under his breath, Sakusa fumbles for the drawer beside the couch, pulling it open impatiently and fishing out a bottle of lube that he tosses ungraciously onto Atsumu’s chest. Atsumu tuts at him disapprovingly as he opens it and pumps some out for the both of them. “Manners, Omi-kun.”

“I never want to hear that from _you_ ,” Sakusa snipes, and Atsumu laughs indulgently before getting his now-slippery hand back around him. Licking into his mouth again, Sakusa does the same, his long fingers winding deliciously around the base of Atsumu’s cock, just cool enough to the touch to send a pleasant tingle racing through him. Atsumu notes a little distractedly that his grip is quietly self-assured and perfectly controlled. Yeah—he can’t really deny it any longer—it looks like Sakusa is at least _experienced_ in sex, if not decently well-versed at it.

“I almost thought you might not even be havin’ any sex,” he remarks, twisting his fist around Sakusa’s cock, letting his palm wrap around the head with every downward stroke. “Didn’t know y’were into guys, either.”

“Can we maybe talk about this _later_?” Sakusa grinds out, his breath coming a little shallowly now. His propped arm is quivering almost imperceptibly. Atsumu doesn’t take pity, maintaining his admittedly slightly ruthless pace of stroking, smirking into the corner of Sakusa’s mouth.

“Sure, Omi-kun. If you really want. _Ah_ , that’s good—do that again.”

He doesn’t want to count his chickens before they hatch, but he’s already starting to feel like he might have this one in the bag. Sakusa’s definitely good, but Atsumu’s so entirely focussed on doing a better job that his arousal is building at a far more manageable rate than it might be if he was just letting himself freely enjoy this, and from the looks of things Sakusa can’t quite say the same. Rosy patches are starting to creep up past the collar of his T-shirt, staining his collarbones and chest. His eyes are a little unfocused too—it looks like they might be on the verge of closing. To test that theory, Atsumu runs the pad of his finger over the delicate skin of Sakusa’s frenulum. The effect is immediate, and _immensely_ gratifying: Sakusa’s eyes do indeed flutter shut, but he also visibly bites back a moan, his teeth tugging at his own bottom lip as he finally abandons his efforts to maintain their kiss, his elbow buckling slightly as he struggles to hold himself up.

Within a split second, though, the ploy suddenly goes from being ‘immensely gratifying’ to possibly being better characterised as a slight backfiring; because Sakusa, having given up on the kiss, now lets his head simply drop into the crook of Atsumu’s neck instead. And maybe he can be excused—given he’s doing all the hard work of bracing himself with one arm—but that doesn’t change the actual fact that he now has his forehead buried in Atsumu’s shoulder, breathing damply into the thin layer of cotton there, his sweaty curls sticking to the side of Atsumu’s neck as he continues adamantly stroking. Something about the whole thing is inexplicably and incredibly erotic, and something lurches in the pit of Atsumu’s gut, his lust flaring abruptly, dangerously.

It doesn’t help that in this position Sakusa’s own neck is just a couple of centimetres away from Atsumu’s mouth, either. The expanse of his throat is just a little too irresistible to ignore: Atsumu leans close and presses his lips there, to the rosy blotches, the jut of his clavicle, his Adam’s apple. Sakusa’s breathing quickens. Still, he somehow manages to say, despite the slight unsteadiness in his voice, “No marks, Miya.”

“Yeah, I’m not _stupid_.” Sakusa smells overwhelmingly good here, and Atsumu once again feels his orgasm suddenly shudder closer, without warning. His timing is either terrible or exquisite, depending on how you choose to view it—Sakusa chooses this moment to tighten his grip on Atsumu’s cock, stroking a little harder than he had before. Atsumu hears himself whine into Sakusa’s skin. “Fuck. Ah, fuck, Omi. Again.”

“Do you— _want_ to lose?” is the slightly shaky quip he gets in response, and Atsumu chuckles breathlessly, speeding up his own pace to cut off the attempted snark. He swipes over the slit like he had earlier, smearing the precum with his thumb. Sakusa swears again; his cock twitches in Atsumu’s hand.

Atsumu murmurs against his throat, “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna lose.”

Or so he says, but he can tell he’s not far from it either. Maybe Sakusa can tell—or maybe it’s just second nature—because he unexpectedly at this point completely stops trying to suppress any of the noises threatening to leak out of him. Suffice to say that Atsumu has not ever taken a moment to prepare himself for the blow of hearing Sakusa Kiyoomi let out a low moan with his face buried into Atsumu’s neck as his fingers slide tantalisingly against his cock, and it hits him like a bullet train, a shiver zipping through him unwittingly. Oh God. All of a sudden he’s perilously close to orgasm, and Sakusa’s showing no signs of slowing down, even as his own panting becomes increasingly uneven, increasingly ragged.

Okay, he realises, sucking in a harsh gasp at a particularly pleasurable tug, the only solution is to just get Sakusa there first. He doesn’t think it’ll be that hard—just a matter of finding that last little thing that makes him tick. Atsumu scrabbles around in his brain, not an easy task given how foggy it is with lust, rifles through stacks of options that all sound equally promising, and eventually just decides that he’ll have to take a stab in the dark.

Pressing his mouth hotly against Sakusa’s neck again, sucking just hard enough that he won’t accidentally bruise it, Atsumu releases a broken groan right below Sakusa’s ear as he strokes a little faster on his leaking cock. “God, Omi,” he mumbles, letting his voice take on a distinctly feverish edge, “ _fuck_. Feels—really good. Y’might—I think y’might—break me after all, if you keep… I— _ngh_ …”

Atsumu hears Sakusa inhale sharply, his whole body going still, and then his shoulders are tensing all at once as he squeezes out a heady cry of pleasure and comes hard into Atsumu’s waiting fingers. Even as his arm trembles and threatens to give out beneath him, though, he manages to keep his grip on Atsumu’s cock, speeding up as he quivers through his own orgasm, and _that_ itself is somehow so weirdly hot that Atsumu finds himself coming almost instantly—groaning deeply against blushed sweaty skin—mere seconds after Sakusa’s finished spilling into his hand.

He lets his head drop back onto the armchair as the last tingles of orgasm ebb away, breathing heavily, feeling boneless. Sakusa very carefully rights himself into a sitting position on the couch. Atsumu doesn’t miss the slight wrinkle of his nose as he surveys their come-stained shirts; the mess on his hands; the sweat soaked through the trackpants that never made it past their thighs.

Sakusa glances over at him, completely serious. “Help me clean up.”

“Can you at least let me celebrate my victory a _little_?” Atsumu whines, and Sakusa huffs a little irritably, getting to his feet to pick up the discarded lube bottle that rolled onto the floor. Unexpectedly, his gripe is this: “It’s not a victory _yet_. In case you haven’t noticed, Miya, we’re now tied.”

Atsumu tries not to look at him with too transparent an expression of astonishment. “I… did notice that, actually. Didn’t realise y’were keepin’ track too, though, Omi-kun.”

“Well, you _challenged_ me,” Sakusa says flatly. “Did you really expect me not to? Me?”

No, Atsumu acknowledges, it’s never even fleetingly crossed his mind that either he or Sakusa would ever back down from a legitimate challenge from the other. No matter how moronic Sakusa might accuse him of being—no matter how aggravating Atsumu calls him in return—if one of them makes a real challenge, in earnest, with something reasonably intriguing on the line—there’s no doubt the other will bite, if only for the sake of proving they can.

Hm. Maybe they’re really just the same breed of unhinged, he finds himself musing.

Well—whatever. An inquiry for another day, he thinks, when he’s a bit less post-orgasm-hazy and gleeful about his one win. He watches Sakusa go to fetch them some tissues and water from near the kitchen, staying sprawled on the navy polyester, not at all interested in moving and wondering whether Sakusa would consider letting him kip on the couch for the night. Even if he gets kicked out, though, he reckons he can consider tonight a pretty decent success.

“You beat me by about a _second_. Can you stop looking so smug over one it?” Sakusa says from the kitchen.

Atsumu grins broadly. “Nope,” he says, popping the _p_ just to be extra obnoxious as he finally reaches down to pull his pants back up. “It’s only just the beginnin’ now, Omi. Miya Atsumu is officially back in the game, and from this point on it’s zero mercy.” He catches Sakusa’s eyes; knows without having to see for himself that his own must be mirroring the militant glint he finds there. “Hope you’re feelin’ ready to _lose_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well
> 
> Hello there
> 
> I must say I did not in fact prepare myself and my cursed first chapter to be Perceived. Nonetheless I appreciate it a lot. Apologies if the rest absolutely sucks (apologies also if you hung around to witness Atsumu getting cucked every single chapter. He does get cucked in many of the chapters. But not this one).
> 
> Also. Your comments mean a lot to me & I smile when I read them. I'm sorry if I sound rude when I respond. I am just trying not to sound too much like my usual self for obvious reasons
> 
> I think I have most of the broad strokes (ha ha ha) of this thing mapped out. But if there are any specific things you would like to see please do let me know. Don't hold back now


	3. 1-1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakusa’s frown only deepens mistrustfully in response. “You’d better. I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near you until a medical professional confirms that doing it won’t give me herpes.”
> 
> “ _Your_ —” The word comes out a little pitchy. He clears his throat, tries again. “Your. Your what now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morn and good horn. To those of you who have recently joined us, welcome. This is a porn practice fic that is shamelessly devoid of any and all plot and exclusively operates by a Quantity Over Quality principle. Be warned: if ever you decide to leave me a comment, it seems, based on the past two chapters, that we will be jointly cursed to an endless cycle that looks something like this—
> 
> "This is crazy. They are both so crazy," you say. "They are, in fact, being almost _unbelievably_ stupid."
> 
> "Yes," I agree, "you are right. It makes no sense. This premise is very deranged by all metrics."
> 
> And then I keep writing it
> 
> And then you keep reading it
> 
> And then

In the wake of round two, Atsumu begins to comprehend how it might’ve been possible after all for Sakusa to have been hooking up with people left and right while completely flying under the radar of any of the Jackals. Because—for someone who spent his last Tuesday night jerking off his teammate on a couch solely for the sake of proving a point—Sakusa doesn’t seem even slightly different in demeanour, or focus, or the way he treats Atsumu. He’s still just as poker-faced and high-performing as always. It’s… honestly kind of unnerving.

In fact, his behaviour is so completely indistinguishable from how it was before that for a few brief moments Atsumu even finds himself wondering whether he maybe hallucinated the whole thing. Why his brain would feel the need to invent up a sex competition with Sakusa Kiyoomi of all people he isn’t quite sure, but—well. He’s never been able to coherently explain half the stuff his brain comes up with in its spare time, anyway.

Fortunately for him, that particular train of thought gets nipped in the bud pretty quickly; not two days after it first occurs to him, Sakusa finally does something that not only confirms that, yes, the Couch Handjob was a real thing that actually happened, but also that things even more _involved_ than said Couch Handjob are very much on the horizon in the near future. Stopping Atsumu with a fleeting touch to his elbow as he’s deliberately dawdling behind everyone else on their out of the changerooms one evening, Sakusa waits for the sound of the team’s footsteps and chatter to fade at the end of the hallway before turning to him and saying, “My test results came back this morning. I’m clean, as I thought.”

It takes Atsumu an embarrassingly long time to figure out what he’s even talking about. But the delay does nothing to quell his surprise even when it eventually _does_ register. “…You got tested?”

Sakusa’s already got his mask on, but the disparaging frown that his face folds into is obvious anyway. “You _didn’t_?”

“I mean. Uh…” He has no clue why the thought hadn’t even occurred to him; probably, he reasons, because his brain was too occupied trying to make sure this entire thing had actually even happened. He decides not to share this detail with Sakusa. “Not—yet. But I will!”

For some reason, Sakusa’s frown only deepens mistrustfully in response. “You’d better. I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near you until a medical professional confirms that doing it won’t give me herpes.”

“ _Your_ —” The word comes out a little pitchy. He clears his throat, tries again. “Your. Your what now?” Why is Sakusa bringing this up as though they’re just confirming something they’d discussed before? Did Atsumu—like— _entirely_ miss some conversation they had about this, or…?

“Isn’t it the logical progression of what we’re doing? Unless you have any better ideas for what we should do next.” Sakusa does up the strap of his obnoxiously shiny Apple watch, sparing him a brief, apathetic glance before closing his locker to commence his usual painstaking routine of sorting everything into its proper place in his bag. “Or—what—does your _rulebook_ say anything about it?”

“Alright, alright, can we cool it with the snarkin’? Y’just took me by surprise!” _Logical progression_ , Sakusa had said—as though any of this can be analysed _logically_. “Look. Okay. I’ll call up my doctor first thing in the mornin’. How about we just—how about I do you first, then? Round three-point-one.”

Sakusa considers him expressionlessly for a moment, clearly taking a moment to decide whether the suggestion deserves yet another earful. Eventually, though, he simply repeats, “…Round three-point-one.”

“Yeah. And then as soon as my results come back, round three-point-two. Or—what some might call the main event.” Unable to resist, he gestures theatrically at his own crotch, delighting in the instant look of incredulity that the visible half of Sakusa’s face twists into.

“Every day you make me ask myself yet again,” Sakusa says, “how it’s physically possible for this much immaturity to be crammed into one person.”

Atsumu chortles, going to lean against the lockers behind him and folding his arms across his chest. “Hey. Omi-kun. Wanna know what I think?”

“Not really, no.”

“I think,” Atsumu says, before Sakusa even finishes the sentence, “that you’d enjoy the Sex Championships a whole lot more if y’got off your high horse about the entire thing, and just admitted that if _I’m_ immature for startin’ it—then _you’re_ no better for signin’ up to it. Y’ever heard of that phrase? _Takes two to tango_?”

This earns him nothing more than a withering glare as Sakusa continues slotting things into his bag. Atsumu thinks he might be doing it with a little more force than necessary, but his animalistic sense of self-preservation tells him it’s probably not the best idea to comment on it. So he just stands propped against the locker as the minutes creep on, and Sakusa does his thing like he always does, and neither of them says a word to acknowledge the palpable sense of anticipation that builds in the metre-and-a-half of changeroom space between them.

When the faint susurration of Sakusa zipping up the gym bag finally scrapes through the swollen silence, though, Atsumu pushes himself off the locker to approach him carefully from behind. The elegant line of Sakusa’s shoulders tenses a little in surprise as Atsumu breathes in a hush into the back of his neck, “Y’ready to go, then? Kiyoomi-kun?”

Sakusa immediately whirls around to face him, something sceptical—bemused—simmering in his eyes. Atsumu grins. “What? We’ve literally held each other’s dicks, surely I can call ya that now?”

“Please stop talking,” Sakusa says automatically, but it lacks bite, his gaze dropping for a split second to Atsumu’s lips before they flicker back up to meet his eyes. He still looks distinctly wary; like he’s yet to pin down exactly what Atsumu’s trying to do. Isn’t he supposed to be smart? Or—and maybe more relevantly—isn’t he supposed to be ‘good at sex’?

C’mon, Omi-kun, Atsumu mentally admonishes him. _Everyone_ knows that sex starts way before the actual sex.

He steps closer. Sakusa holds firm, though his jaw does flutter minutely under his mask. He smells softly of his deodorant—cucumber, green tea—and cooling sweat. The aircon whirrs above them.

Directly into his left ear, in a voice that is simultaneously as suggestive as it is falsely innocent, Atsumu asks him, “Or do I have to wait to call ya that until I’ve got my mouth around you?”

Sakusa doesn’t grace him with a quip in response, but from this close, Atsumu can practically _feel_ the little physical giveaways of it catching him off guard—the tiny twitch of his hand, hanging between the two of them; the tension in his shoulders somehow managing to pull a little more taut; the movement of his throat, barely noticeable, as he swallows soundlessly.

And there it is after all. The thing Atsumu’s pinpointed as his most glaring strategic weakness in this demented competition: Sakusa Kiyoomi is _still_ (and, to be honest, somewhat insultingly) underestimating him.

Well. He won’t for much longer.

“…What are you doing?” Sakusa says, almost inaudibly.

Atsumu ducks to press his mouth to the dip of his throat, fleetingly taunts him with the tip of his tongue. He wonders whether Sakusa can maybe feel the curve of the self-satisfied smile against his skin. Doesn’t bother wiping it anyway. “Playin’ to win.”

* * *

He doesn’t let up on his whispered promises of what’s to come as they make their way to Sakusa’s car, watching like a hawk as a disgruntled flush slowly rises up his neck, his jaw, creeping beneath the refuge of his mask. Sakusa makes no attempt to stop him. He doesn’t make any attempt to outdo him, either: he just keeps walking stiffly to the underground carpark with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breathing steady. In fact, if it wasn’t for the obvious rosiness, Atsumu might think he wasn’t listening at all.

It’s only when they actually get to his car and are both inside, their bags tossed into the backseat, that Sakusa shows any kind of actual response. Atsumu’s reaching for his seatbelt, having momentarily paused his deluge of dirty talk to do it, when Sakusa—both hands on the steering wheel and his foot already on the accelerator—abruptly and unexpectedly bursts out, “ _God_. I seriously—are you an _idiot_? Do you ever, at all, stop to _think_ about what you’re doing? Hm? Miya?”

Startled, Atsumu turns quickly in his seat; Sakusa, though, has his eyes fixed on the windshield and not on him. “I—what? What’d I do?”

“You,” says Sakusa, extremely deliberately, “need to learn to make use of the few brain cells you’ve been graced with, and actually reflect on the fact that actions have _repercussions_ before you just—go ahead and do them.”

Atsumu stares at him. The buckle of his seatbelt hangs limply in his grip. “Sorry,” he says finally, giving up on trying to make any sense of this. “Y’lost me. What’ve I done now?”

Sakusa’s hands tighten around the steering wheel, and he lets out an incredibly pained-sounding exhale as he removes his foot carefully from the accelerator. When he speaks it’s with an almost remarkably tangible level of reluctance. “…I. Can’t safely drive us. Right at this moment.”

Uh. What? He drove them yesterday, what is he talking about?

And besides, even if he really can’t drive for some reason, what on Earth does that have to do with—

Before the objection makes its way out of his mouth, though, Atsumu somehow manages to _at last_ put two and two together, and his breathlessly-snuck glimpse of Sakusa’s groin confirms the conjecture that suddenly barrels into him like a missile. And—look—he’d known from his lucky stab-in-the-dark last Tuesday that dirty talk is surprisingly effective on Sakusa, which is exactly why he’d incorporated it into his little guerrilla-warfare scheme earlier, but—he hadn’t done it with the intention of it being _quite_ this successful. He’d just wanted to rile Sakusa up a little. Put him in the mood. Make it easier for himself to push him over the edge once they made it to Sakusa’s place later, really.

That was seriously _it_.

Except.

Sakusa’s now already hard. And, according to him, too hard to drive them home.

It’s—probably a little bad. Yeah, he feels a little bad. He doesn’t have a _completely_ shit personality. But he also doesn’t have so uninspired a personality that he can’t see the humour in this situation, either. And he definitely doesn’t have a mature enough personality to let it go without making a huge deal out of it.

“Oh, this is too good,” he hears himself say, his tone manifestly gleeful. “Were you _that_ excited to hear everythin’ I’m plannin’ on doin’ to ya, Omi-kun?”

“It’s not funny,” Sakusa snaps. “And you won’t be able to even do any of those things if I can’t _drive_ , you moron.”

His brain’s already been working overtime for the past minute to keep up with these frankly brilliant developments, but it now offers him another flash of inspiration—just to bring things full circle. And it’s too perfect, really, how everything’s just aligned itself like this. He hadn’t even been _trying_.

“Well, then, I s’pose we don’t have much choice,” Atsumu says breezily, letting go of the seatbelt in his hand and shuffling forward in his seat. “I’ll just have to do it here.”

Maybe he’d almost been expecting the suggestion, because the look Sakusa gives him now is more scathing than shocked. “You’re not sucking me off in my car, Miya.”

“Why? Haven’t ya got the windows tinted?”

“Yes, they obviously are, but that’s not the point.” He’s still got his hands on the wheel, the skin of his knuckles pinched and pale as the joints underneath shift in displeasure. “As if I’d let you get my car messy. I just got it upholstered.”

Atsumu leans over the gear shift knob between them. Sakusa slants him a sideways look as he does it.

“I won’t get a single drop on your seats, Omi-kun,” says Atsumu, both of them unblinking as they hold one another’s eyes.

The entire carpark feels deathly quiet. Not a single set of footsteps breaks the silence.

“Promise,” Atsumu adds.

Sakusa searches his face, probably for any indication of insincerity. Then he glances around the carpark once. Takes a hard breath, ruffling the edges of his mask. Removes his hands from the steering wheel.

And then, looking as though he can’t quite believe he’s doing it, reaches down and slowly pulls free the drawstring of his pants.

He only tugs them down far enough to pull himself out of his boxers, angling himself a little so his back is closer to the window, shielding his groin—mostly—from view. His cock is about as hard as Atsumu had guessed from the tent in his pants earlier, and Sakusa audibly hisses when he gets his own hand around it to pull himself free. Atsumu stifles his grin. Yep: this shouldn’t take him too long at all.

Shuffling again in his seat, Atsumu repositions himself so he can reach, leaning over and pausing with his mouth hovering tantalisingly above Sakusa’s cock. Inches closer to the tip. Exhales; watches it twitch under the heat of his breath.

He glances up and taps the surface of Sakusa’s Apple watch with one finger, making it light up. Sakusa tears his gaze from Atsumu’s mouth and looks at his watch a little distractedly.

“Start the clock,” Atsumu says, his tone intentionally teasing.

Sakusa’s brows furrow. “…What.”

“The timer on your watch.” He taps it once more and then lets go to brace himself with that arm as he leans back down. “Start it now, stop it when I make ya come. No cheatin’, Omi-kun. We don’t stand for bad sportsmanship here, do we?”

And then—without waiting for a response—he ducks his head, steadies the base of Sakusa’s erection with one hand, and swallows it down in one smooth, unwavering motion of his mouth.

Sakusa’s choked groan is half-stifled by his mask, but it’s nowhere near enough to cover the sound completely. His hands fumble firstly with his watch and then drift down to settle a little uncertainly in Atsumu’s hair; Atsumu hums around Sakusa’s cock to communicate that it’s okay, and Sakusa jerks forward reflexively at the vibrations of the sound, huffing out a harsh pant. Atsumu almost feels bad for him. Surely he’s got no hope of winning this round if he’s already _this_ sensitive.

And yet over the next several minutes, for all of Atsumu’s diligent sucking, his tonguing at the rim of the head of Sakusa’s cock, his tracing of the long vein that runs down its underside, Sakusa doesn’t come. His breathing grows increasingly erratic—and at some point his hands stop simply resting against Atsumu’s scalp and move into ‘fisting at his hair’ territory—but he somehow, perhaps by sheer willpower alone, doesn’t actually come. Atsumu’s jaw starts feeling sore. He’s getting noticeably worse at stemming the spit that leaks out of the corners of his mouth and runs down the sides of Sakusa’s cock. And the sounds of Sakusa’s muffled little pants behind his mask are nudging him to a level of arousal that’s gradually making it more and more uncomfortable for him to be stretched across the two front seats like this.

Okay. Fuck. This is fine, he tells himself stoutly. It’s fine. He’ll just have to—adjust tactics. That’s not something he’s unused to as an athlete. And he, of all people, prides himself on his adaptability. So—

“…Y’can fuck m’mouth,” he slurs, around a mouthful of Sakusa’s cock.

Sakusa’s fingers briefly slip in his hair before he hastily regains his hold. His hips, though, don’t move at all.

Atsumu resists the urge to roll his eyes. Yeah, he figures he should’ve expected this brief moment of calculation, whether it’s more because Sakusa doesn’t want to facilitate his own orgasm or because he’s doubting Atsumu’s ability to take it. So he doubles down and sinks as low as he can on Sakusa’s cock until it hits the back of his throat, his mouth completely full, his heart pounding in his chest from exertion and his jaw aching with the stretch of it. And then he just stops moving entirely. Holds the position as best he can. Focuses only on stopping any more spit from dribbling past his slick lips.

Sakusa releases a low, muted keen of frustration, and then clenches his fingers in Atsumu’s hair and bucks up once—cautiously.

It’s still enough of a movement to nudge him a little further into Atsumu’s throat and nick at his gag reflex. Atsumu tries to swallow down the instinct to pull away but chokes on the tickle instead, coughing around Sakusa’s cock even as he stubbornly refuses to back off, desperately sucking air through his nose as his eyes start watering of their own accord. God. The feel of telltale tears pricking is hotly mortifying—but he ignores them for now. He can feel embarrassed about it later. For now, he just has to focus: he’s pretty sure Sakusa’s close to just giving in and fucking his mouth properly with abandon.

The question is, though, _how_ close?

He dares to take a cursory check, lifting off just enough for Sakusa’s face to swim into view through the screen of fresh tears, hoping his own face doesn’t look as wrecked as it feels right now. He inadvertently meets Sakusa’s eyes and—with horrifying audacity—his body decides that this is the right time to cough again, this time around the head of Sakusa’s cock.

Sakusa’s eyes widen for an instant, his gaze not leaving Atsumu’s; and then his grip tightens, and his hips twitch, and he lets out a slightly bewildered moan as he spills hotly, all of a sudden, deep into the back of Atsumu’s mouth. Atsumu hears him grab at the backrest of his seat as his orgasm wracks through him; it seems to have caught them both equally by surprise, and Sakusa’s gasps are coming hard and fast, his fingers curling around the nape of Atsumu’s neck as he struggles not to thrust up again.

Atsumu swallows as quickly as he possibly can and then pulls off at once, coughing into the back of his hand as he flaps the other one in Sakusa’s general direction. “Turn it—stop the—th’timer,” he manages to rasp, scrubbing away the blurriness in his eyes as Sakusa, his breathing still a little shallow, mutely taps at the face of his watch and then lifts his wrist to read the time.

“Write it down somewhere, Omi, c’mon.” Atsumu’s voice is discernibly hoarse—great. He hopes Sakusa gets stuck with it too when he gives _his_ blowjob.

He waits for Sakusa to make note of the time in his phone and then do up his drawstrings again before saying, with as much slyness as he can muster despite the huskiness coating his voice, “So. Good, right?”

Both of their seatbelts click into place. Sakusa settles his hands again on the steering wheel—turns on the engine—steps down onto the pedal. His chest is still rising and falling a little quickly.

“…Yes,” he says, and Atsumu finds himself blinking in astonishment at how matter-of-factly he admits it. He needn’t have, though, because not a beat passes before Sakusa adds, in a tone equally matter-of-fact, like it’s an established certainty already: “But mine will be better.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Atsumu says, with a dismissive wave of his hand that draws an appropriately affronted glower out of Sakusa. “I’ll hear it when ya _prove_ it, Omi-kun. I reckon the numbers’ll speak for themselves.”

* * *

The numbers get put to the test exactly four days later, when Atsumu’s GP calls to give him his test results. “I’m clean,” he mutters under his breath, as he passes Sakusa on his way to grab his towel, Sakusa barely reacting as he pops open his water bottle and takes an unfazed sip. Atsumu tries not to make it too obvious that he’s watching the movement of his lips around it—he’s caught himself doing that far too often lately, and it makes his head hurt to try and interrogate exactly what it is that’s brought the habit on. Besides, he’s figured by now that this whole thing is far simpler when he doesn’t think about it too hard.

Neither of them needs to put anything in words for Atsumu to know that he’s to linger back today again. He almost expects Sakusa to get him back for last time and launch whatever strategy he’s got up his sleeve before they even make it to his car, but he doesn’t even step close enough to get a hand on Atsumu, much less whisper in his ear. Maybe Sakusa senses the dubious apprehension emanating from him, though, because he snipes contemptuously as they pull out of the carpark onto the dusk-hazy road, “I don’t need to use underhanded tactics to win, Miya.”

Distinctly miffed, Atsumu protests, “They weren’t _underhanded tactics_. I was just usin’ all the tools in the toolbox.”

All that he gets in response is a flat, somewhat cryptic “hm” before Sakusa falls completely silent for the rest of the drive to his place. He seems deep in thought—Atsumu can almost see the cogs turning at a rapid-fire pace in his head—but whatever it is he’s pondering he keeps entirely to himself, not saying a thing even as they step into his entryway together for the second time in two weeks, disappearing into the bathroom to no doubt scrub down his hands while Atsumu shrugs off his windbreaker and hangs it on the coat rack.

He’s starting to feel a little nervous. Something about being back in Sakusa’s place, maybe—he’d won here last time, but this time around he knows there’s much less he can do to control his own performance—he’s done his bit, the time’s been jotted down, and all he can do now is hope Sakusa’s not some kind of secret blowjob extraordinaire who’s been training all his life for this opportunity. The thought almost makes him snort: if anyone would throw themselves headfirst into diligently preparing for this kind of eventuality, he thinks, it _would_ be Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Sakusa emerges from the bathroom mask-free as he’s midway through washing his hands with the soap at the kitchen sink. Atsumu looks up, turns the tap off, pats his hands dry on a clean dish towel nearby; Sakusa’s nose wrinkles a little, but—miraculously—he doesn’t otherwise comment on it. Maybe he doesn’t want to break his own concentration. Ha. Yet again: yeah, Sakusa Kiyoomi _would_.

“Come here,” Sakusa says, abruptly, from where he’s standing by the couch. “Let me kiss you.”

And—okay—if Atsumu’s stomach does a little flip at that, it’s because of the _unexpectedness_ of it, not because the faint note of nonchalant command in Sakusa’s voice is hot or anything. Swallowing, he goes to Sakusa on high alert; as much as he hates to admit it, his kisses are hazardous terrain, and he knows that all it’ll take is one millisecond of letting his guard slip for him to be utterly devoured again. He sucks in a breath and holds it as Sakusa takes a step towards him. Lets his eyes fall closed at the first press of those lips against his own.

They’re maybe two minutes into kissing, the very edges of Atsumu’s lucidity starting to go softly fuzzy with lust, when Sakusa says directly into his mouth, “I won’t start the timer till you’re hard.”

He curls his tongue against Atsumu’s as soon as he finishes speaking. Atsumu manages a muffled noise of inquiry but very little else, his bottom lip caught between Sakusa’s teeth.

“Even playing field. I was hard when you started.” Sakusa’s hand drops down from where it had been resting at the dip of Atsumu’s back, winding around the side of his hip and coming to lightly trail against the inside of his thigh. The touch sends an immediate flicker of arousal to his groin, and he moans breathily into their kiss as Sakusa unhesitatingly moves to palm him through the thin fabric of his pants, clearly not missing even one detail in his reactions. It’s a weirdly heady thought, that Sakusa is paying this much attention to him. It should maybe make him worried about whether he’ll be able to hold himself together, but—if he’s being honest with himself—the intentness of his scrutiny just makes Atsumu feel kind of dizzily powerful.

Perhaps it’s the fact that they’re making out right next to That Couch, or the fact that Sakusa’s now kissing along his jaw and it’s just as mind-numbing as he’d remembered—either way, Atsumu finds himself growing hard under Sakusa’s touch much faster than he’d like, and eventually he’s forced to bat his hand away, mumbling a little abashedly, “…Think ’m good now. Y’can. Start, probably.”

Sakusa pulls back from his neck and gives him a quick once-over. Seemingly satisfied by whatever it is he sees, he nods in the direction of the couch: “Sit.”

“How about a ‘please’?” Atsumu mutters, dropping down into it anyway.

Before he’s even really done settling into a comfortable position, Sakusa’s kneeling on the floor between his legs, fingering at the waistband of his pants, his intensely focussed gaze darting up once to meet Atsumu’s as he says, “I don’t think I’ll be the one needing to say ‘please’, Miya.”

And then he briskly tugs Atsumu’s pants and boxers down to his ankles, leans over to position himself over his lap, taps at his watch to start the timer, and runs his tongue assertively along the underside of Atsumu’s cock all the way from base to tip.

The sudden, direct press of wet heat against him after the negligible touch of Sakusa’s hand through fabric is almost staggeringly pleasurable. His toes curl immediately, and he bites down on an instinctive whine, bracing his arms on the couch on either side of himself and fixing as firm a grasp against it as he can. Sakusa runs the flat of his tongue against the full length of his cock again, then switches to licking at his frenulum, his movements almost delicate, as meticulously controlled as he is with everything else. Of course. Of _course_.

“Y’really—really sure y’can win just by doin’ that?” Atsumu says, mostly to stave off his rapidly gathering arousal.

Sakusa doesn’t take the bait. Not increasing his tempo in the least, he leans further forward to take just the head of Atsumu’s cock into his mouth, suckling gently, spit collecting at the rim of his lips. Atsumu exhales a little effortfully through his nose. It’s loud enough that neither of them can miss the way it wavers at the end.

“Thanks ever so much for your concern, Miya, but I don’t need it. I know exactly what I’m doing,” Sakusa murmurs, tonguing at the precum beading at Atsumu’s slit now. He’s got his hand wrapped around the base of Atsumu’s cock, but loosely enough that the touch is barely there, Atsumu’s senses entirely zeroed in on just the warmth of his mouth as his pleasure mounts with alarming acceleration. His fingers are tingling a little. He digs them deeper into the polyester of the couch.

For the first couple of minutes this is _all_ Sakusa gives him. Kitten-licks to his slit, mouthing at the head, hot breaths scattered along its length. The hand not supporting the base of Atsumu’s cock he’s got pressed coolly against the inside of Atsumu’s right thigh, keeping his legs spread, and he’s massaging gently into the skin there with just his thumb. The whole thing feels—almost—leisurely. Completely unhurried. Like Sakusa doesn’t even care about the seconds ticking by. Like he’s happy enough just listening to the way he has Atsumu’s breath skewing without ever having gotten his mouth fully around him.

Yeah—it’s _extremely_ infuriating. Unfortunately for him, it’s also really, really hot.

Which is why Atsumu very quickly finds himself aroused almost to his wit’s end, and—as much as he confesses there’s something a little mesmerising about watching Sakusa cover every square centimetre of his cock with fleeting touches of his tongue—he can tell that his precum’s coming faster now, his length twitching in response to the slightest stimulation Sakusa offers him. How long is Sakusa planning on keeping this up? Surely he doesn’t actually think he can make Atsumu come _just_ from this?

“Omi,” Atsumu gets out through clenched teeth. “Seriously. Are you _tryin_ ’ to throw the round?”

Sakusa pulls off him instantly, brows creasing with scorn at the allegation. “What? Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and then, without any other kind of warning, he takes Atsumu back between his lips, sucks a little hard at the head, and this time, _this time_ , sinks fully down the length of his cock to bring him right into the heat of his throat.

Atsumu gasps sharply. “Oh, fuck—oh my _God_ ,” he hears himself say, and his voice sounds winded even to his own ears. He feels himself hunch forward unwittingly, Sakusa’s lips almost too hot around him, the inside of his mouth intoxicatingly velvety after the scarcely-there brushes of his tongue, his teeth. He stares down at the overwhelming sight of Sakusa Kiyoomi swallowing him down on his knees on the floor of his own flat and wonders—for about the dozenth time—how exactly they made it all the way to this point without thinking twice about it.

The soft muscles of Sakusa’s throat flutter around his cock, as though reminding him not to zone out. A tremor races down Atsumu’s legs; all at once his orgasm goes from being a distant threat to being very real, very present, _very_ soon. He hadn’t even realised how high-strung he’d been from all the teasing until it was cut off and replaced with— _this_ —and he’s struck by how fantastically stupid he’d been for even entertaining the notion that Sakusa wasn’t thinking ahead.

…Underestimation. _Fuck_. Maybe he’d still been a little guilty of it, too.

His head’s still bowed a few inches above Sakusa’s, the ends of his fringe almost brushing the dark curls below him every time Sakusa bobs up and down. Trepidation and lust tangling in the woozy fog of his brain, Atsumu effortfully lifts his head to try and make out the time on the stopwatch. Sakusa seems to have the same thought—they simultaneously look over at his wrist, and he’s sure they also reach the exact same conclusion.

_Not long now._

Okay, he can do this, he can do this. Clutching at the edge of the couch so hard he thinks he might break through the fabric completely, Atsumu concentrates on steadying his breathing, even as pleasure licks incessantly up from the pit of his stomach as Sakusa speeds up. He thinks it might—honestly, it might be the _sight_ of him that really ends up doing it, something about that resolute sense of purpose, that intense tenacity, the length of his cock disappearing over and over between saliva-glossy lips that are just as good at this as they are at kissing—nope, nope, bad thing to picture now— _stop looking at him_ —Atsumu squeezes his eyes closed on a frenzied whim as he teeters closer to the edge.

Sakusa suddenly draws off him. Even through the pounding in his ears, Atsumu hears the click of a drawer opening to his right, a hand shuffling around inside. What—what’s Sakusa doing _now_? That’s where he keeps the condoms and lube, right? Why would he—why does he need—

“You don’t get to close your eyes,” Sakusa says as he closes the drawer, a frown in his voice. “I didn’t. I thought you said _fair play_?”

Dazed, Atsumu opens his eyes obediently and glances down between his legs. Sakusa’s mouth is close enough for him to feel the wisp of his breath against his cock, but what catches his attention before that is the fact that he’s also casually coating the fingers of his left hand with lube as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Without a word of explanation, he calmly sets the bottle to one side, ducks forward and licks at the head of Atsumu’s cock again, and lifts dark eyes to lock unwaveringly onto his.

Atsumu doesn’t breathe.

Sakusa blinks at him owlishly—swallows him down halfway while simultaneously reaching behind his own back to slot his gel-slicked hand nimbly under the waistband of his pants—and then, very, _very_ unmistakably, he inserts his fingers inside himself—all without ever dropping Atsumu’s gaze even once.

…Oh my God. He’s fingering himself. He’s fingering himself while he’s still got Atsumu’s cock in his mouth, one hand on the couch so he can hold himself up on his knees, his lips going a little lax as his eyes flutter closed of their own will. He’s really… _he’s really_. Atsumu watches, stupefied, as Sakusa shifts his elbow to catch a better angle. He must've found it, because his expression creases into one of obvious pleasure; a tiny noise from somewhere deep in his chest gets smothered in the fullness of his mouth. 

Then, with his fingers stilling inside himself and his eyes opening a little to look up through his trembling lashes, Sakusa tightens the ring of lips again and sucks _hard_ —and Atsumu can do absolutely nothing to halt the crash of the orgasm that immediately shudders through him, sweeping from the very top of his head all the way to the prickling ends of his fingers and toes, as he doubles over, lets out a fractured cry, and comes right into Sakusa’s waiting mouth.

Pleasure coursing through his every blood vessel, he blearily registers that Sakusa has the courtesy to suck him through it, even as he swiftly pulls his fingers out of himself and reaches over with his clean hand to slam at the stopwatch with characteristic efficiency. The numbers freeze onscreen; they both turn to look, Atsumu heaving unevenly for breath, Sakusa’s mouth finally abandoning his cock.

For a tense beat the both of them are silent. Then—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Atsumu groans, slumping against the back of the couch and pressing his palms into his eyes. “I was so _close_! Damn it!”

Sakusa drags the back of his hand across his lips and gives him a haughty smile. “I wouldn’t call that ‘close’. That was obviously a clearer win than round two—”

“Yeah, because you _cheated_!”

Narrowing his eyes, Sakusa says, “Oh? And how exactly did I cheat?”

“You—you—” But somehow, even with his orgasm-addled brain, Atsumu knows intuitively that saying _you made me watch you finger yourself_ would probably do little to help his case. In fact, it feels a little like it would double the magnitude of his loss. He instead lapses into silent fuming as Sakusa gingerly gets to his feet and vanishes straight into the bathroom. He hears the tap turn on.

“Not sure I trust you with that stopwatch anymore,” he calls out loudly over the sound of running water, a little petty, as the last lingering traces of pleasure ebb away and are quickly replaced with a sort of flustered chagrin. “We’ll have t’find somethin’ else to measure the win by next time.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Miya. I can win by any metric.”

Stepping out of the bathroom, Sakusa surveys the way he’s still flopped against the navy cushions, passing him as he heads to the kitchen to open the fridge with a sigh of resignation. “Should I take this to mean you’re kipping on the couch again?”

Atsumu momentarily considers whether he’d rather stay petty, or stay over. His feet are a bit numb still; the five-minute walk home sounds interminable. He peeks over into the kitchen to see Sakusa pulling a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “What’re y’makin’?”

“…Donburi.”

Atsumu sits up enthusiastically. “Ooh, okay, I’ll stay over.”

“What, so now I’m making you dinner, too?” Sakusa shoots him an unamused look around the edge of the fridge door. “Can I ask, what are you actually _contributing_ tonight?”

“Mm… I s’pose I could help ya finish what y’started, earlier.” He hauls himself up off the couch and goes to hover by the entrance of the kitchen, leaning his hip against the marble island and watching Sakusa stack ingredients on the counter by the stove. “For a donburi and a couch for the night?”

To his surprise, though, Sakusa responds placidly, “I’m not hard.”

Atsumu blinks. “But… you…” He tries to figure out a way to articulate why that makes no sense—and then realises that it _does_ actually make sense, if, as he’d guessed earlier, Sakusa hadn’t done it to get himself off at all—if the point was entirely something else, a deliberate tactical move to throw Atsumu off his gameplan.

_You don’t get to close your eyes._

Immediately, he straightens, pointing an accusing finger at Sakusa and blustering in disbelief, “I _knew_ it! I knew y’were—see, _cheatin’—_ ‘no underhanded tactics’ my ass—”

“Look, Miya,” says Sakusa, totally unbothered as he bends to turn the gas on. “I might’ve been the one to do it, but if it worked, I’d say that says more about _you_ than it does about me, doesn’t it?”

Atsumu doesn’t manage to conjure up a good enough defence in time to retort immediately and the corner of Sakusa’s mouth quirks up into the ghost of a smirk. He reaches for a pan to set over the fire; Atsumu tries in vain not to let his eyes drop to the curl of those long fingers around the handle, not to imagine the way they must’ve been tucked inside him in much the same way. Yeah—there’s no use, he acknowledges unenthusiastically. It’s hot. It had been hot before and it’s hot now and it’ll probably still be hot when it inevitably creeps into his brain again next.

“It’s exactly like you said, Miya,” says Sakusa loftily, as he greases up the pan and throws in the mushrooms, flooding the kitchen with a low sizzle. “I believe they say it takes _two_ to tango.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Staying for _dinner_ Atsumu-san? That wasn't in the handbook, now, was it?
> 
> Also: I am aware that I subjected you to an unsolicited callout in the opening notes but my genuine thanks to those who come and giggle ~~at~~ with me in the comments (or who have dropped me a kudos, or subscribed, or bookmarked, et cetera!). You bring a smile to my face. I am glad we are all just having a grand old crazy time together
> 
> As a gift for those of you who have stuck around despite this chapter being more lol than sexc, I have something a little tasty planned for round 4. I am very excited to share it with you (soon I hope, if only I can chop chop and get to it)
> 
> Wishing you a very pleasant rest of the week. Drink many glasses of water. Reply to that email you are pretending not to have seen for 3 weeks
> 
> ~~O yes and apologies for being an Apple watch apologist but, well, as if Kiyoomi wouldn't~~


	4. 1-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just happened to discover in high school that I’m particularly well-suited to fingering as a way to get off. So I did a lot more of it.”
> 
> “What does that even mean? ‘Well-suited’?”
> 
> Rolling his eyes, Sakusa gestures vaguely to one of his wrists. “Flexible. I can get a lot of angle control. And range.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Welcome back. No pre-chapter negging for you today. (Perhaps after, though.)

Over donburi, they talk.

The first fifteen minutes are inevitably about the sex. Well. He says _inevitably_ , but Atsumu supposes it’s more accurate to say he drove the conversation right there. And honest to God, despite how it probably looks at this point, he really hadn’t been planning on it this time—had been ready for a cordial, ambling chat about nothing in particular—the new Pumas that got released yesterday—tomorrow’s training schedule—the weather, maybe. But two bites into his bowl he’s suddenly slapped ever-so-kindly in the face by a realization that probably should’ve occurred to him _several_ minutes ago, and now that it has, albeit with a little delay, he just. Can’t _not_ ask.

“You used your left hand,” he blurts out, chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. “On yourself, before. D’you always do that?”

It maybe doesn’t speak too well of Atsumu’s usual choices of conversation topic that Sakusa barely bats an eye before responding. “I wanted to keep the other hand clean to stop the timer.”

“Yeah, I got _that_ , but—that can’t have been your first time usin’ your left hand if y’did it that easily.”

“It wasn’t my first time.” Sakusa takes a bite and fixes him with a broadly disinterested look, as though Atsumu had simply asked him how much onion had gone into the donburi. “I’ve practised with both hands. I can use them equally easily now.”

What. _What_? No—no way—wasn’t there some stupid joke Atsumu had told himself about this exact thing, not even an hour ago?

“You’ve… practised,” Atsumu echoes. The shape of the word on his tongue does something peculiar to his gut. “You’ve practised… ambidextrous… fingerin’. For—wait, when you say ‘practise’, d’you mean you—”

“Not for _this_ ,” Sakusa cuts in, tetchy. “I know we all have to remind you on the daily, Miya, but the world doesn’t actually revolve around you, and my sex life certainly doesn’t. This long predates you, believe me.”

When Atsumu still doesn’t inch his chopsticks any closer to his lips, waiting wordlessly for him to continue, Sakusa lets out an impatient little exhale through his nose and puts his own cutlery down—hard—onto the table. “We all experiment to figure out things we like and dislike, don’t we?” he rattles off, and he may as well be reciting his times tables, seriously, “I just happened to discover in high school that I’m particularly well-suited to fingering as a way to get off. So I did a lot more of it.”

“What does that even mean? ‘Well-suited’?”

Rolling his eyes, Sakusa gestures vaguely to one of his wrists. “Flexible. I can get a lot of angle control. And range.”

Ah.

Right. Okay. Yeah, obviously. Angle control and range. Yep. How _silly_ of Atsumu not to have leapt to that conclusion himself.

His mouth suddenly feels kind of—dry. Swallowing, he reaches for his water glass. “So—what—you figured y’may as well make use of both hands?”

He gets nothing more than a shrug in response as Sakusa picks up his chopsticks again and, utterly unruffled, resumes eating. The gesture somehow holds the same sort of quiet, calculated confidence that his spike approaches do. And yet Sakusa's never been the type for baseless boasts. His confidence is always solidly founded in ability to match. Always.

The peculiar feeling in Atsumu’s mouth and gut tightens into something a little less vague, a little less unidentifiable: curls itself into the shape of an all-too-familiar curiosity.

“You’re hypin’ yourself a bit, y’know, Omi-kun,” he says. “Wanna make that the next one, then?”

There’s no request for further explanation, just another self-assured little lift of the shoulders. “Alright. It’ll just widen my lead, though.”

“Like fuck it will. Y’said that about the second round, too.”

“Mm. But you’re the one who said it about the entire thing and you’ve yet to take the lead even once.”

Atsumu opens his mouth at once to retort, and then closes it slowly as the substance of the dig actually registers. Damn it. That has absolutely no right being true. And yet, somehow, unbelievably, aggravatingly, it very much is. _Damn_ it _._

He watches with burning peevishness as Sakusa’s lip curls into a smug smile.

“You know, for someone with such a ludicrously big mouth,” Sakusa deadpans, when Atsumu does nothing but sit there mutely fuming, “you sure did a brilliant job at losing the blowjob round.”

A thick, electric silence follows the end of his sentence. The only sound to cut through it is the scrape of Sakusa’s chopsticks against the bottom of his bowl as he collects a neat bite-sized mound of donburi there.

“My condolences,” he adds, taking the bite.

For a moment, Atsumu’s completely at a loss. He stares blankly at the—surely _possessed—_ man claiming to be Sakusa Kiyoomi sitting across from him. Every single day that they continue with this questionable undertaking, Sakusa seems to become less and less recognisable, the mosaic of Atsumu’s assumptions and hypotheses and inferences about him shifting little by little, its edges peeling and cracking. It’s intensely unnerving. Like meeting him for the first time all over again.

It’s a strange development, really, Atsumu marvels to himself, a little stunned. To think that—out of all the unpredictable, temperamental, eccentric people he’s met in this sport—in his _life—_ Sakusa Kiyoomi is the one who’s ended up giving him far, far more than he bargained for, who’s almost solely responsible for the handful of instances throughout Atsumu’s existence in which he’s been rendered entirely speechless. God. _Sakusa Kiyoomi._

It honestly makes no sense.

(Except it kind of makes perfect sense, too.)

* * *

Unlike the past three rounds, though, round four doesn’t fall effortlessly into place—both of them have busy weeks coming up, and their schedules don’t _quite_ align, somebody’s dinner plans slotting with somebody’s free evening, that sort of thing. This means that for the first time they’re forced to actually talk logistics—fortunately, Sakusa’s at the very least eased up on the strict no-mentioning-it-around-other-people-at- _all_ rule, and much of the Logistics Discussion ends up happening in hushed snatches of give-and-take, during water breaks, during cooldowns.

“What about Thursday?” Atsumu murmurs, just softly enough that it’s mostly drowned by Hinata’s yelping as Bokuto leans into his back with one knee to help him stretch. “I know you said family dinner, but—after? When are you gettin’ home?”

Sakusa makes a face. “Right after granny and great-uncle and all the cousins? No, thanks.”

“Okay, fine, _fine_. Saturday?”

“Morning?”

“Can’t do mornin’. After dinner?”

“I’m busy then.”

Atsumu huffs in frustration. “Okay, when _can_ you do, then?”

Tugging his shoulders into what looks like a painfully deep stretch, Sakusa grunts out in a low voice, “Sunday evening?”

…He has plans Sunday evening. Not _important_ plans, sure, but they probably still take precedence over a completely inconsequential sex competition with his volleyball teammate. No—not probably—definitely. _Definitely._ Christ, it’s sort of shocking how fast he’s losing his grip on reality because of this whole. Business.

Atsumu pauses, tosses up his options in a fraction of a heartbeat. Watches Sakusa switch seamlessly from shoulder-stretching into his slightly surreal wrist-stretching routine. Catches the soft hiss of breath he releases as they bend absurdly, impossibly, and an unhelpful little voice in the back of his mind chooses this moment to supply him with the words _angle control and range_ — 

“…I’ll shuffle some things around,” he hears himself mutter, finally. “Let’s just do Sunday evenin’. I’ll walk to yours. We’re doin’ _you_ first.”

* * *

“I’ve been thinking about the scoring system for this round,” Sakusa says to him, with no pretext, as he opens his door to let Atsumu in on said Sunday evening. “You wanted to change it from just timing each other.”

“Yeah, no, I had a great day!” Atsumu says, toeing off his shoes and then leaning down to line them up parallel to Sakusa’s in the entranceway. “How about you, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa doesn’t even pretend not to ignore him. “How about this? If I manage to hold off on touching myself at any point tonight before I come, I get the point.”

Hanging up his jacket, stepping absentmindedly into the now-familiar bathroom to wash his hands, Atsumu says, “…Huh. What’s the catch?”

“Why would there be a catch?”

“Because _you’re_ the one suggestin’ it.”

“Alright,” says Sakusa, flatly. “Let’s hear yours, then.”

Atsumu pumps out a generous pool of handwash into his palm. The crisp scent of apple sugar fills the bathroom. “Loosen up, Omi-kun, I’m just teasin’. I don’t really have anythin’ better. Let’s just go with that.” He’s not fully certain he understands the logic of it, but that’s pretty much a hopeless endeavour at this point anyway. Take it at face value, he tells himself—it’s not like he finds that all too difficult most of the time.

He closes the tap—dries down his hands—steps out of the bathroom. Sakusa is leaning against the wall outside with his arms loosely folded across his chest. For a beat they regard one another, a quick silent once-over, as though sizing up today’s opponent; not that there’s reason for anything to have changed. The same charged anticipation seems to hit equally hard every time.

Sakusa pushes himself off the wall and turns around. To Atsumu’s surprise, though, tonight he heads not for the living room but towards the closed door of what’s clearly his own bedroom, turning the knob without hesitation, opening it up as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. When he notices Atsumu isn't following him, he glances over his shoulder and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“…Not the couch today?” Atsumu asks, slowly.

“I’m not getting fingered on the _couch_ when I’ve got a perfectly good bed,” says Sakusa.

Atsumu wisely decides not to point out that they’ve done a whole manner of things on that same couch, shrugging easily and following him into the bedroom instead. He’s never seen the inside of Sakusa’s room—it’s not all that different from what he’d imagined, though, clean floors and uncluttered walls and a meticulously organized desk lined with a neat row of novels. And in the centre of the room, of course, the main attraction: the bed, queen-sized and plush, covered in spotless ivory sheets and plum-violet pillows. It looks like it might, actually, be one of the most indulgent pieces of furniture in the entire place.

“Nice bed. You a big fan of sleepin’?” Atsumu quips, and receives the expected look of unadulterated disparagement in response.

“It’s a wonder you get anyone to stick around long enough to get to the sex part, if that’s your idea of bedroom talk,” Sakusa says, visibly repulsed. “ _A big fan of sleeping_ …”

“Okay, _okay_ , thank you very much for the snide commentary as always, Omi-Omi.” He drops down onto the edge of the mattress and relishes in the way it sinks with the perfect amount of give beneath his weight. Leaning back onto his hands, letting his eyes skirt over Sakusa once more, he says offhandedly, “Well, then, y’can go ahead and strip now.”

It’s only for a half-second, but he catches the temporary disorientation in Sakusa’s expression anyway—though, to his credit, he recovers it almost immediately. “…Aren’t you going to be taking anything off?”

Atsumu grins at him, cocksure, salacious. “Nah,” he says, “don’t think so. Now strip.”

Sakusa’s jaw moves; he runs his tongue over the top row of his teeth once, as though to steel himself. Then—with what Atsumu thinks is pretty impressive composure given the circumstances—he smoothly tugs his T-shirt over his head, his pants down to his ankles, and lets them pool on the floor together as he steps closer to the bed, totally irreverent for all his nakedness, for the fact that it’s the first time one of them’s been entirely bare for a round like this.

Atsumu can’t really blame him for the defiant stance—he knows he would’ve been exactly the same had their positions been switched.

(That doesn’t mean he won’t try and break it down anyway, though.)

He nods once in the direction of the pillows at the head of the bed. “Lie down.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes at the authoritative tone but does as he’s told, sinking into the mattress and settling himself so he’s half-propped up against the pillows. Humming in approval, Atsumu crawls up the bed to seat himself right next to him, trying not to laugh at the way Sakusa’s eyes trace his every move mistrustfully—as though he thinks Atsumu might reach into his pocket and pull out a bazooka at any moment, announcing, _that’s why I kept my clothes on, you fool!_

“What’re you smiling about?” Sakusa says, the suspicion filtering right through his voice.

Atsumu suppresses it to the best of his ability. “Nothin’, nothin’. Where’s the lube in this room?”

Leaning over to the bedside drawer, Sakusa opens up the bottom one and fishes around blindly for the bottle. Atsumu cranes his neck to steal a peek—just before Sakusa pushes it back closed, he manages to catch a glimpse of what is evidently a decently well-stocked drawer, with far more exciting things in it than just _lube_ , if the brief flashes of metal and black satin and colourful plastic are anything to go by.

 _Huh._ Sakusa really _is_ getting down and dirty in here after all, then.

The thought sends a little curl of heat through him and he clears his throat in an attempt to extinguish it before it spreads, taking the bottle that Sakusa hands him and willing himself to concentrate. He needs to keep his wits about him—he’d half-expected that they would’ve been aiming to make the other person come _untouched_ from fingering to earn the points this round, but Sakusa’s gone and turned that completely on its head for some inexplicable reason. That means he’ll have to change tack accordingly, he notes to himself, as he coats up the fingers of his right hand with lube. Focus. _Focus._

“Spread your legs, Omi-kun,” he says, and sees more than hears Sakusa’s intake of breath.

Long pale legs fall open a little warily, muscles tensing and untensing as though they’re undecided on how best to prepare for what’s about to come, already slightly on edge. Odd, Atsumu thinks absently. He hasn’t seen Sakusa look so _nervy_ over a round yet.

He runs his hand once over Sakusa’s cock, first. Traces the vein on the underside and thumbs at the frenulum—the way he now knows Sakusa likes—and elicits, right on cue, a bitten-off sound of pleasure. Smirking in satisfaction, he does it again, and then switches over to a few firm strokes in a row, Sakusa’s cock rapidly filling in his slicked-up hand.

When it’s about half-hard, he releases his grip; drags his fingers slowly down to the base of Sakusa’s cock, skirts them over his balls, over his perineum. He can hear Sakusa’s breath quickening beside him as he leaves the glistening trail of lube along his meandering path down the warm stretch of skin. When he reaches Sakusa’s hole, he lets his finger slowly draw over the rim once—it flutters deliciously under his touch.

Atsumu shuffles minutely closer, slots himself against Sakusa’s side, and whispers directly into his ear, “Ready?”

Two ticks of silence—Sakusa’s hand fists itself into the sheets between them—and then he nods, sharply, just once. Curt but unmistakable. Atsumu grins.

“Good,” he breathes, and pushes his finger in.

The reaction is immediate. Sakusa’s whole body instantly tenses, his hole clenching around Atsumu’s finger; he forces out a skittish breath and then seems to will himself to relax, even as his grip on the sheets tightens, his arm flexing unwittingly. Undaunted, Atsumu pushes in deeper until the full length of his index finger’s been swallowed up past the hot ring of muscle. It slips in without resistance.

He’s _inside_ Sakusa, he realises then with a start, momentarily thrown. It doesn’t feel all that different from anyone else in a tangible sense, of course—he’s hot inside, sort of silken, the muscles of his walls twitching slightly around Atsumu. And yet in every other sense but the purely physical, this feels almost monumentally different. Like he’s stealing into territory he shouldn’t be allowed to see. Like he’s… out-of-bounds.

Beside him, Sakusa makes a twisted little noise deep in his throat, shoving Atsumu brusquely out of the train of thought at once. He pulls his finger all the way back out to the first knuckle and then pushes back in— _slowly._ Sakusa makes the noise again. He releases the sheets he’s got grasped in his fist, laboriously.

Atsumu wriggles his finger around contemplatively, drawing a tight gasp out of Sakusa this time. “I might not’ve practised as much as you, Omi-kun,” he says, moving his hand, adjusting his angle, “but I’ve done my fair share of fingerin’. I know what I’m doin’. And I know how I’ll get you to touch yourself, too.” Ah—right about here feels right. Sure enough, an experimental swipe of his finger tells him he’s right above the little nub he was looking for; he gives himself a mental pat on the back for locating it so efficiently, and then turns his attention to positioning himself properly so he’ll be able to reach it each time. “…But first I’ll make ya feel really good. Just because I’m a nice guy, Omi-kun.”

Shooting him a glare, Sakusa grinds out, “Can you—maybe—shut up for _once_ in your life, Mi— _ah_!”

The word breaks off into a startled moan as Atsumu hooks his finger against his prostate, and then starts moving it in and out of him, methodically, pacing himself. Sakusa sinks back further into the pillows and lifts his hands off the sheets to press his palms against his eyes instead, groaning breathily as Atsumu alternates between gently massaging his prostate and finger-fucking him with measured ruthlessness. A flush gradually rises on his chest, blossoming past his collarbones and up to the delicate curve of his neck—Atsumu leans down, without really having consciously decided to do so, and finds himself pressing a kiss to the diffusing edge of the blush. Heat rises off every inch of his rosy skin. It glistens faintly with a thin sheen of sweat already.

Sakusa’s hole has completely loosened around his single finger already—and so, never having been one to beat around the bush without good reason, Atsumu goes ahead and carefully adds another one. As soon as both are about halfway in, Sakusa lets out a low keen. He’s still got his hands thrown over both his eyes. Atsumu wants to tell him to move them away, so he does; and somewhat unexpectedly, Sakusa complies without much protest, dropping his hands to the sheets again and blinking rapidly as his pupils adjust in the sudden brightness. Atsumu doesn’t wait to push his fingers the rest of the way in. Still blinking, eyes a little unfocused yet, Sakusa gasps out, “ _F-fuck._ Miya—”

Atsumu’s genuinely sort of bowled over at how quickly he’s managed to get Sakusa to this point. He decides he won’t comment on it—not _yet—_ but quickens the pace of his hand instead, ramming it back in a little more forcefully each time, curling his fingertips with unfalteringly precise timing so they brush against Sakusa’s prostate, making his shoulders shake, making his toes dig into the mattress. It’s alluring to watch the way the rise and fall of Sakusa’s chest gets shallower, quicker, skin glowing with a layer of sweat that’s now climbed beyond just his shoulders and throat—all the way down to his stomach, his arms, but also up to his face, stray curls glued down messily against his forehead and eyelashes quivering as he catches his bottom lip with his teeth over and over and over again to stifle the sound of his own panting.

His thighs are starting to tremble too, bent knees almost closing in on themselves. Atsumu reaches over with his free hand and tugs them open a little roughly—they come apart easily, Sakusa moaning again as his eyes finally fall closed now, beyond his control.

He hasn’t even once made any move to touch himself. And yet his cock’s completely hard, darkened with a flush, looking as though a couple of brisk tugs would send him right over the edge. Atsumu frowns in bemusement. Surely he can’t come untouched _this_ quickly—surely he’d at least need some kind of—?

But then, abruptly, something falls into place, like the click of a key sliding home. Atsumu hastily slows down his relentless finger-fucking at once.

“…Omi-kun,” he says, cautiously, hardly daring to believe it, because surely— _surely_ not, “you’re not that far off comin’. Are ya?”

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open a little blearily. He fixes them onto Atsumu with some effort. “…Hm?”

“I mean, just—look at you.” Not that Sakusa can in the same way Atsumu’s looking at him, really, but if he could he’d realise what a sight he is to behold: his cock’s leaking onto his stomach already, his entire body tinted pink and radiating warmth, his grip in the sheets now lax, closing weakly for purchase around fabric but grabbing only air.

Atsumu drags his gaze back up to Sakusa’s face and hears himself catch his own breath. He looks—shockingly feverish. When their eyes meet Atsumu becomes certain he’s nailed it after all; even so, he asks it anyway, if only for the sake of asking, if only to make Sakusa squirm.

“You’re _well-suited to gettin’ yourself off with fingerin’_ ,” he quotes, and doesn’t miss the way Sakusa’s tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip almost self-consciously. “It’s not just because of your wrists, though. Is it?”

“If you have something to say,” Sakusa bites out, uneven, “spit it out, Miya. I don’t have time for a pop quiz.”

Atsumu tilts his head to one side, holds his eyes thoughtfully for a moment, and then says, in a tone that does little to mask the intrigue behind the bluntness of his words, “I bet it doesn’t take that much to make you come untouched. Does it? If I kept goin’ like this for a couple minutes you’d be there.” And now that he’s articulated the initial realisation, more of the pieces slot into place unprompted. “And I bet that’s why you suggested makin’ the round all about _not_ touchin’ yourself. You knew that y’could score an easy point by that metric, plus I guess you thought it was safer than lettin’ me choose the metric, because—it’s literally a fingerin’ round—the intuitive option I obviously would’ve gone for is sayin’ I should get a point if I make you come from nothin’ but my finger.”

He pauses for breath; studies the flurry of subtle changes in Sakusa’s face. “…But y’knew you’d lose in an _instant_ if we went by that. Right?”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything in response. His restless panting has eased up a little, but he’s still tense, clearly disconcerted now for a different reason altogether—being caught red-handed, Atsumu’s willing to safely bet.

He presses both his fingers into Sakusa’s prostate without warning and tears a fractured curse out of him. “See,” Atsumu says, triumph and something confusingly like desire bleeding into one another deep in his gut. “You’re so close. Fuck. Almost had me, Omi-kun.” And then he draws both his fingers almost all the way back out, so that only the very tips are tucked past the ring of muscle, Sakusa clenching reflexively around them. “…Too bad I caught on, though.”

Consternation passes conspicuously over Sakusa’s expression—he’s too far gone, it seems, to keep it totally in check. Atsumu lets his fingers slip back into him with painstaking sluggishness and says, “But today you’re gonna have to touch yourself, Omi-kun, sorry. Or I’m afraid you won’t be comin’.”

Only by the time he reaches the end of his sentence do his two fingers finish their leisurely re-entry, and a cracked noise of frustration escapes Sakusa as he shifts to try and push them further inside him. Atsumu swiftly pulls them away in tandem.

“ _Miya_ ,” Sakusa hisses, sounding like he’d rather die than say anything more incriminating.

“Yes?” Atsumu says, drawing out the vowel, deliberately bratty. He’s leaning almost wholly over Sakusa at this point, supporting himself with one arm with the other still tucked securely between bent legs; Sakusa’s slipped further down the pillows, his elbows having mostly given out beneath him. “…Somethin’ you need?”

Resentful dark eyes flit up to meet his, hazy with arousal. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“On the contrary. I think I’m just playin’ exactly how I’m supposed to.”

Sakusa exhales harshly and unsuccessfully tries to manoeuvre Atsumu’s finger deeper inside him again. Atsumu tuts and pulls away, unable to keep the glee out of his voice as he admonishes, “Stay still, Omi-kun. C’mon.”

“I will if you _move_ —”

“I’ll move, I’ll move,” Atsumu promises him, and slides his fingers in flush against Sakusa’s hole in one unbroken move. Sakusa cries out. “See? Told ya. Now stay still—or touch yourself, if you really want. That works too.”

Sakusa glowers at him. “No way in hell, Miya.”

Atsumu hums amicably and bends his head to blow lightly over one of Sakusa’s nipples. “Okay, sure. We’ll see about that.”

And for the next several minutes he proceeds to finger Sakusa at a pace that can only be described as torturous, his unmatchable obstinacy coming into good use as he refuses to cooperate and give Sakusa exactly what it is he wants—skirting over his prostate with the barest brushes—never quite deep enough or fast enough or hard enough. He can see Sakusa’s frustration climbing as though there were a video game metre hovering right beside his head. His breathing has lost any semblance of a regular rhythm, staccato and staggered in his chest, and though the top of his face is half-obscured by his damp hair it’s still a dead giveaway of how unbearably close to orgasm he’s been suspended for the last while. The tops of his cheekbones are blotched with crimson. His lips are slightly parted and bitten raw; Atsumu entertains the fleeting notion of kissing them, and then waves it away hastily in favour of prioritising the task at hand.

He twists his fingers. Sakusa squeezes his eyes shut. His cock twitches against his stomach.

“God,” Atsumu marvels out loud, cutting the thrust of his hand short and inching it back out for what must feel like the hundredth time to Sakusa, “you really were _made_ to be fingered, weren’t you?”

“If you think so, then at least— _ah_ —at least do it properly.”

“Do it yourself,” Atsumu says, meanly, and then, just because he likes to be unpredictable, starts sharply driving his fingers into Sakusa at the same rough speed he had at the very start of the night. Sakusa chokes on an intake of breath; his legs fall further apart of their own accord.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps out, the long-awaited ache of relief lacing his unsteady voice, “fuck—yes, keep— _ngh_ …”

He’s really on the verge of coming, Atsumu registers a little distantly. He knows it’s a dangerous line he’s treading. But if he manages to pull it off—if only he can time it right, he’s pretty sure he might just be able to—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sakusa cries out, “Miya—!”

Atsumu immediately jerks to a stop, and watches, mesmerised, as Sakusa’s eyes widen and he lets out an anguished whine, the glittering edges of orgasm about to be torn right back out of sight again. The split-second weigh-up flickers plainly in his expression—tangled up between lust and vehement fury—and then he fumbles over a snappish “for _fuck’s sake_ ”, throws Atsumu a profoundly dirty look, and reaches down with a slightly tremulous hand to shove his own middle finger inside himself, squeezing them in deeply right next to Atsumu’s.

He barely has time to blink. A sort of bittersweet pleasure floods over Sakusa’s sweaty face, his cock jerks, yet to be touched even once since Atsumu let go of it, and then the muscles of his hole tauten around the both of them and a deep, desperate moan stutters its way past Sakusa’s lips and then he’s finally coming, his whole frame curling in on itself with the force of it, as he spills all over his stomach with his free hand clinging to the collar of Atsumu’s damp v-neck.

“Ah— _oh_ ,” he pants, burying his finger as deep inside himself as it’ll go. Atsumu doesn’t pull his out either, the initial astonishment having given way to something more like impressed fascination, tinged with a suggestion of arousal. “ _Hah._ Fuck. God. _God._ ”

As soon as the bursts of orgasm are finished washing over him Sakusa collapses back against the sheets, heaving for breath, staring up with uncharacteristic dazedness at the ceiling above him. He’s still coated all over in that pretty flush. He lets go of Atsumu’s collar now and brings the hand to shield his eyes from the light; but he somehow still doesn’t miss the way Atsumu opens his mouth to remind him what this means, uttering a pinched, “Not a word, Miya, or you’ll _seriously_ regret it,” without removing the arm that covers his field of vision for even a second.

Atsumu grins down at him and then quietly slips off the bed to go and grab him some towels and tissues and maybe a bit of water or something. Fine then—he won’t say a word, if that’s what Sakusa wants. He doesn’t need to, anyway. They’re both exceedingly clear on _exactly_ who this entails victory for, and he’s sure Sakusa’s currently experiencing a sweeping dismay as potent as the matching elation Atsumu’s feeling right now, that same drunken sort of high he feels when he gets in a particularly accurate serve, a particularly nasty dump.

Actually—he always seems to find himself feeling that acute sense of _satisfaction_ after these rounds with Sakusa, if he really thinks about it. But that makes sense, he muses, as he pads into the unlit kitchen and feels his way around mostly by memory. It’s obviously the thrill of winning. And when he doesn’t win, it’s just the thrill of competing. It’s who he is—who _they_ are—simply by nature.

“Because we’re athletes,” he says out loud, mostly to the fridge. “We’re professional athletes. We’re so addicted to competin’ that we do it full-time. It’s in our blood, or somethin’. We love the stuff.”

The fridge looks distinctly unconvinced. Atsumu sighs and aims a half-hearted kick at it.

“…Yeah. You probably wouldn’t get it,” he tells it, and then swings the door open to pour Sakusa a glass of juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello (again). Some small announcements for you all (so perhaps no post-chapter negging either):
> 
> First and foremost, I embark upon the ship headed straight to exam hell & therefore may drop off the face of the Earth for some time. Or perhaps I will stress-keyboard-smash and still produce chapters (this one was chopped cleanly in half because it was getting far too long, even by my Porn Forever And Always standars, so indeed I may post the second part as a shorter chapter to tide us along). Who knows, really. I am sure by now I have made it clear enough that a consistent update schedule is quite possibly the _last_ item on a long list of things you ought expect from this work of fiction.
> 
> To move down our agenda: it has been recently brought to my attention by ~~a friend~~ an FBI agent that my waxing on in the A/Ns (apologies) and comment replies actually are doing a less than capable job of not sounding like me. As a result, my replies to your (fantastically funny and impressively unhinged) comments may be undergoing something of a makeover. Do not be alarmed by them. Please freely keep up all the roasts. I thrive off your concern for the state of my brain.
> 
> In short, all this is to say how dearly I love to interact with you. Where do you derive such hilarity? Why do you not pursue an illustrious career in standup comedy instead of reading this questionable material? And o, there slips in the post-chapter negging after all. Well, it is not an Author's Note of mine without it.
> 
> Warmest regards,  
> Hannah Montana's Wig


	5. 2-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s startled by the abrupt sound of a sharp rap at the door of his booth. Atsumu sighs and pulls his head out from under the jet of the shower with extreme reluctance. _Of every empty fuckin’ stall in the entire bathroom…_
> 
> “Occupied,” he calls out, a little impatient, trying not to tack on the _ya idiot_.
> 
> Instead of the mumbled apology that he’d expected, though, he hears an equally impatient voice slip through the crack under the door: “Yes. I’m aware. Now open the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, beautiful horndogs, I have returned with yet another several thousand words of Questionable Content. Let us kindly agree to pretend, for the sake of my sanity, that we do not all share the knowledge that I am still in fact in the middle of exams.
> 
> Thank you for your cooperation. In return I offer you this:

It takes just four days after the evening of his victory for Atsumu to realise that it— _this_ —has started affecting his play. He feels sharper, more alert, like any excess traces of dust and cobwebs in his brain have been neatly swept away by a sort of cheerful clarity. And it’s not just that he’s generally more responsive to his surroundings—he feels _particularly_ attuned to Sakusa. He’s noticed he’s a little quicker in sensing the movement of a now all-too-familiar body behind him without even having to glance back to know it’s about to brush past him. His sets leave his fingertips at an angle microscopically more precise than before, as though he’s memorised down to the millimetre the distance from Sakusa’s shoulder to the end of his wrist. And the perfect, resounding blow of the palm-to-ball contact that inevitably follows tells him he’s not the only one who’s finding it just that much easier to match up.

There’s a novel sort of visceral synchrony there, something carnal, not necessarily logically interpretable: something to do with the fact that when he now envisions in his mind’s eye the curves and ridges and planes of his hitter, in that precious split-second when his gut makes a calculation even his brain can’t, he doesn’t have to just envision it anymore. He knows it by touch. He can _feel_ it.

And it’s so damn _satisfying_. It makes him work a little harder—go a little further—pushing himself, pushing Sakusa. After all, it’s when they face a challenge that they really shine, the both of them. (They’ve got a real abundance of proof for that now.) (Not that they needed it, probably.)

The extra effort makes itself known in the twinge of his thighs at the end of the day, that comfortable flickering burn that licks its way through the muscle when he stops moving for a second. On days like this—when the ache is a little more intense, when he’s not in any particular hurry—he likes his post-training shower to be long, steaming, and uninterrupted by impatient teammates threatening to yank open the curtain and kick you out. Which is why, _just_ on days like this, he’ll happily cop a slightly longer walk if it means he gets to make full use of all their training complex facilities.

“I’m gonna head to the pool bathrooms,” he announces to the changeroom at large. There’s still a handful of them milling around and pulling towels and fresh clothes out of gym bags for their own showers. They make vague noises of acknowledgement in response; Sakusa, over in the corner by his locker, doesn’t give any indication he’s heard Atsumu at all. Yeah, he supposes, pretty typical.

By some miracle, the bathroom is almost entirely unoccupied when he gets there. There’s only one shower in use, but he hears the taps squeak to a close as he beelines for his favourite booth by the far wall, and by the time he locks the stall door (door, not _curtains_ : reason fifty-two why these bathrooms are unquestionably the best in the facility) the sound of running water’s stemmed completely and the squelch of receding footsteps pass him by instead. And then—after a moment—blissful, echoey silence.

Atsumu strips and turns the water on.

The water pressure here is _perfect_ , God, just a little harsh on the skin, exactly the way he likes it. He basks in its sharp heat and lets the dull throb in the muscles of his legs dwindle and fade. He’ll have to make sure he keeps stretching properly over the next few days—he wants to be in absolute _top_ form by the weekend, when the promised part two of round four rolls around and they put to the test Sakusa’s offhanded puffery about his _expertise_ , for want of a better word—finally.

He blinks, pauses. ‘ _Finally_ ’? Okay— _what_?

Before he can really get to properly interrogating it, he’s startled by the abrupt sound of a sharp rap at the door of his booth. Atsumu sighs and pulls his head out from under the jet of the shower with extreme reluctance. _Of every empty fuckin’ stall in the entire bathroom…_

“Occupied,” he calls out, a little impatiently, trying not to tack on the _ya idiot_.

Instead of the mumbled apology that he’d expected, though, he hears an equally impatient voice slip through the crack under the door: “Yes. I’m aware. Now open the door.”

Maybe if he hadn’t been so utterly baffled by it, Atsumu would’ve actually stopped for a moment longer to register the situation, ask what was up, think about what to do in response before moving right into action. Instead he just steps right out from under the water and pads carefully over slippery tiles to swing open the door without a second thought.

“…Omi-kun?”

He hadn’t even heard anyone come into the bathroom over the heavy cascade completely encircling him. And yet here stands Sakusa Kiyoomi now, closing and locking the stall door behind him, diligently taking off his training gear and folding it into a neat pile to place on the towel rack, having slipped in completely unnoticed and then gotten naked within the span of about two minutes. He looks utterly composed, and not in the least like he’s about to provide any kind of (much-needed) pretext for his—uh—surprise visit.

The water’s still running behind him. Atsumu’s wet skin is starting to rapidly cool. He doesn’t move an inch.

“There are,” he hears himself say, stupidly, watching the familiar little shifts and flutters of all of Sakusa’s muscles as he steps closer. “There are other. Showers. That are free.”

Sakusa throws him an appropriately condescending look as he walks right past him into the stream of water, sighing as it rushes over his head. “Stunningly insightful as always, Miya. Really. Are you coming in or not?”

Uh, yeah, _not_ , obviously _._ Not before he figures out what on earth is going on. “…Omi. What’re—what’re ya doin’ here?”

Sakusa’s got his eyes closed now, rivulets tracing their way down the length of his arms and the bumps of his knees. He bows his head and lets the water reach the back of neck—hisses in pleasure as it hits—a spot of pink blooms there as the heat spreads. It’s almost like he’s seriously here to just… _shower_. But then why steal _this_ one?

“I realised I’m busy this weekend.”

Atsumu stares at Sakusa and waits for him to continue. He doesn’t.

“Uh. That’s cool, Omi-kun, but—couldn’t y’have—like… told me that… later?”

Slowly, painstakingly, Sakusa opens his eyes. He doesn’t turn his head, but his irises flick over to meet Atsumu’s. “Miya. I said I’m busy _this weekend_.”

Yeah, he’d heard the first time, but what he’s asking is obviously why that scintillating piece of news needed to be delivered to him _right now_ when he’s just trying to enjoy a nice long shower away from the mob of the team in his favourite booth (which has now been _stolen_ ), as opposed to literally any other time, when they can actually sit down and discuss a better day when the both of them can—

… _Wait._ Wait a moment—okay. Unless— _okay_. Okay. Is he maybe—?

“…You’re not actually here to discuss our weekly schedules,” he says, a little wary, “are ya?”

Sakusa finally _does_ turn his head now, water clinging to the ends of his fringe and weighing them down, the strands drooping over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He looks unfairly good like this—artful more than waterlogged—dripping like a melting icicle.

“No, I’m not,” he says bluntly. “Is that a problem?”

Atsumu’s willing to bet that his expression looks just as dumbfounded as he feels. Is this really Sakusa he’s talking to? “Omi. Y’do realise that we’re—we’re in the _communal_ showers. Of our _communal_ _training facility_.”

“And you sucked me off in the _communal_ carpark of our _communal training facility_ ,” Sakusa points out, shaking his hair out of his face with mild irritation. “Since when did _you_ suddenly become the paragon of virtuousness in civil society?”

“What if someone comes in and hears us?!”

“They won’t hear you if you stay quiet.” A patronising smile curls the edge of his lip then. “Though—I’ll admit that might be easier said than done.”

Atsumu very forcefully stomps down on the whisper of arousal that sends skirting through him and zeroes in instead on the implied challenge. “Y’really wanna do this right here. _Here_. Really.”

A long-suffering eyeroll, as though _Atsumu_ ’s the one who’s being difficult to deal with. “It’s more the ‘now’ than the ‘here’. We’re both free, aren’t we? May as well—I don’t think it’ll take very long, anyway.”

Okay, now he’s surely being crafty on purpose. As if he doesn’t know that throwing out provocation after provocation like that only means that Atsumu—being Atsumu—won’t have any real option but to rise to the dare, in exactly the same way the reverse would probably also be true. Well. Fuck it, then. _Fuck_ it all, he’ll just win and wipe that smirk right off the pretty bastard’s face and get the last laugh and be done with it before dinner. Simple.

He grits his teeth and storms into the water, shoving Sakusa out of the way to park himself directly under the showerhead with his back mulishly turned and his arms folded across his chest.

Sakusa huffs behind him. “Stop being juvenile. Turn around.”

“No,” grouches Atsumu, petty. “If you’re so _confident_ it shouldn’t matter which way I’m facin’. Get on with it—go on. I haven’t got all day.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Sakusa releases a long, aggravated sigh of apparent resignation before stepping close to him. His chest grazes Atsumu’s shoulderblades, his back; water coils and gathers between their skin where they barely touch. A confident hand snakes around to brush its way unceremoniously down Atsumu’s abdomen. It wraps around his cock without warning.

“ _Argh_ , your hand’s _freezin_ ’,” Atsumu grumbles. “You’d think stealin’ my shower would’ve helped. What are you, Elsa?”

Unexpectedly, Sakusa’s voice comes from directly beside his ear, making him jump a little. “In complete seriousness, Miya, I’m not actually that far from banning you from ever speaking again while we have sex.”

 _While we have sex._ There’s nothing lecherous about the _way_ Sakusa says the words, but they’re strangely tangible in the way they hit home, something acute in their explicitness. Yeah, they’re—he supposes that’s exactly what they’ve been doing every week—twice every week, almost, _God_. All in the name of winning. And now they’ve somehow reached the point of not even making it to Sakusa’s _car_ before one of them gets their hands on the other, just to catch them off-guard, just to raise the bar another inch. What’s next, he finds himself wondering, a little hysterically. Are they just going to start making out in the middle of training?

Sakusa strokes over the head of his cock with his index finger and thumb formed into a tight ring. Startled, Atsumu lets out an inadvertent moan and immediately winces at the way the sound reverberates off the tiled walls of the bathroom, amplified and ringing. The hand around him stops stroking at once. Atsumu braces himself for the inevitable rebuke.

“I know there’s no one here right _now_ ,” Sakusa says, disparagingly, “but do you _want_ to get caught?”

“Sorry, _sorry_ ,” Atsumu bites out. He knows the accusation is intended to be sarcastic, but he feels his face flame at it all the same. “Y’surprised me. That’s all.”

Sakusa just clicks his tongue, sounding less than impressed. “ _Honestly_ ,” he says under his breath, “I can’t trust you with the most basic instruction—”

“What—! I _said_ it’s only ‘cause y’did it outta nowhere, not— _mmph_!”

The cool press of a palm against his lips cuts short Atsumu’s indignant protest, and he can do nothing but blink and fall silent as the unanticipated change in situation dawns on him, in little trickles at first, and then like the rush of an avalanche. Sakusa’s still got his right hand around Atsumu’s cock—though he hasn’t started moving again—and now his left is sealing closed Atsumu’s _mouth_ , totally unhesitant, just lax enough not to hurt him, just secure enough to make it clear that he means it.

And then, his voice, right into Atsumu’s ear again: “You’re being too loud.”

The cocktail of it all is as intense as it is surprising. Arousal floods his arteries, suddenly. He feels himself harden in Sakusa’s grip, hears the intake of breath behind him in response, the firm tug it earns him that has him moaning again, the sound mostly smothered this time by Sakusa’s palm. _God_. That just makes it even hotter. It strikes him like an uppercut once again—though a little less coherently this time—that they’re really doing this, him and _Sakusa_ , right now, right here.

“Same rules,” Sakusa tells him, ever calm as he continues methodically stroking Atsumu to full hardness, his fist slippery with water. “If you touch yourself, I win. Got it?”

His attempt at a retort gets expectedly garbled by the muzzle of Sakusa’s hand. Annoyed, Atsumu settles for a nod instead, and then decides mostly on impulse to brace himself with both hands against the wall in front of him. This way, he figures, he’s far less likely to reach for himself by reflex; and the solidness of the cold tiles against his hands will be helpfully grounding.

Sakusa makes a noise of haughty amusement. “Good idea, probably.” He lets go of Atsumu’s cock and brings the hand back around his hip instead, fingers light and deliberate over the curve of heated skin, dragging lower, _lower_. “…Alright. Now keep holding on.”

There’s none of the extended tracing and teasing that Atsumu had expected from him after the blowjob round: Sakusa’s finger plunges into him with a kind of combative determination, laced distantly with a delicious sting as it bottoms out in an instant. For a moment Atsumu finds himself grateful for the hand over his mouth, because the keen that tears itself out of his throat is shamefully loud even stifled by it, and he honestly isn’t sure there’s a single thing he could’ve done to prevent it from escaping.

Sakusa has the audacity to shush him then. Atsumu fights the urge to bite his palm.

Honestly, they’re not standing in a way that’s at all conducive to fingering: Sakusa can probably barely see what he’s doing with his own hand, and Atsumu’s mulishly refusing to bend over more, which might have made things a tad easier for him. And yet, even so, the press of Sakusa’s finger inside him is _definitely_ not just blindly prodding or feeling its way around. No, it’s—it’s without a doubt perfectly controlled. It slides into him smoothly every time, striking him at just the right depth and angle, the initial twinge of its insertion having swiftly given way to sparking pinpricks of pleasure. Atsumu can feel the rhythm of his breath shifting subconsciously to match pace with it. He wills himself to stay steady.

When the tip of a second finger nudges past his entrance beside the first it’s with a welcome sort of burn, and he bites back a groan as his thighs, still a little sore in places, flex involuntarily to support him. Sakusa’s seriously not doing anything all that mind-blowing—there’s no magical technique, no crazy stunt—and yet that just makes the quickly-gathering onslaught of pleasure all that more confusing. He thinks it might at least partly be the almost unbelievably accurate consistency with which Sakusa’s pushing in and out of him, hitting the same spot over and over so his sensitivity there just keeps mounting every half-second, and when he finally curls his fingers to directly press at Atsumu’s prostate, it’s barely even surprising just how headily incredible it feels, knocking the air right out of him. One of his hands slips against the wall. He hears Sakusa laugh quietly as he scrabbles to get it back into place, his fingers trembling a little against the tiles.

For a while Sakusa continues on in a way that’s almost benevolently attentive. He sends ripples of lust skidding through Atsumu with every generous thrust, every hook of his fingers, every press and twist and stroke. Every ounce of Atsumu’s focus is entirely centred on keeping himself upright and not making too much noise. And he hates to admit it, but Sakusa had been right: that particular challenge is _far_ easier said than done. His fingers feel intensely good—and, more importantly, they don’t halt to let him get his bearings for even a _breath_ —so that by the time Sakusa gets a third finger inside him, Atsumu’s panting unsteadily into the palm against his lips, his fringe soaked-through and dripping into his eyelashes, his toes curling into the water gathering on the floor tiles beneath them. Steam whirls hot and heavy around their heads. It’s starting to make Atsumu’s mind go a little fuzzy around the edges.

Sakusa pushes all three fingers into him deeply, assertively, and a strangled sound catches in Atsumu’s throat as he collapses forward and presses his forehead against the cold tiles in front of him. The hand on his mouth tightens minutely. The fingers drive into him again.

 _Fuck._ He doesn’t know what Sakusa thinks he’s doing, but this is—it’s good, it’s _really_ good, and Atsumu will seriously come without having to touch himself at all at this rate. He feels weirdly conflicted about that result: on one hand, it obviously means Sakusa loses by technicality, but. Well. It sort of feels like—like he won’t really be the one to have lost in _substance_ if Atsumu comes any time soon—god, it hasn’t even been ten minutes since they started. And yet his heartbeat is already stumbling in his chest. He can barely keep his heavy-lidded eyes open, and he’s keenly aware of the fact that his panting’s devolved into embarrassing little whimpers caught right in Sakusa’s left hand. Yeah, he’s—close. He’s really close _._

“Hm,” Sakusa says, his voice low and a little thoughtful as he leans forward to rest his chin on Atsumu’s shoulder and massages firmly at his prostate, barely reacting to the muffled string of curses it draws out of him, “you’re surprisingly receptive. Maybe you’re _well-suited_ to being fingered, too, Miya—or—what. Am I just that good?”

 _Yeah_ , he’s good. As if he doesn’t know that, the massive asshole—ah, _fuck_ —Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel his orgasm coiling in the pit of his stomach, and Sakusa’s not showing any signs of slowing, even though he can surely _see_ that Atsumu’s thighs are starting to tremble, that he’s got his hands clenched against the wall as he holds on for dear life, his shoulders heaving as he breathes in and out, hard, through his nose. What is he _doing_ —?

“Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu’s eyes fly open immediately. His heart drops right out of his ribcage. No—no no no no _no_ , this can’t be happening right now, he can’t be here right now. _Why_ is he here right now?!

“Atsumu-san, it’s Shouyou,” Hinata calls. The jarring realisation that his voice is getting nearer cleaves right through the steam and arousal fogging Atsumu’s brain. “Omi-san already left, but a few of us were thinking of grabbing dinner—did you want to come too?”

Oh, yeah, that’s a good one. As if _Omi-san_ has already left— _Omi-san_ is currently quite occupied finger-fucking him with relentless tenacity, apparently unfazed by the fact that there is _literally_ someone right outside now, maintaining the same hard thrusts deep inside Atsumu as his pleasure climbs right out of _I’m close_ territory and into a sort of panicked deliriousness instead. What is he supposed to do? Does he just—pretend he can’t hear? How long will it take Hinata to give up and leave?

But then, jolting him right out of the frantic train of thought, Sakusa’s voice: whispered against his earlobe, engulfed by the sound of rushing water.

“What’re you waiting for, Miya?” he says, his breath hot against Atsumu’s skin, “Hinata’s asking you a question.”

And then, with poised indifference, he takes his hand off Atsumu’s mouth to wind his arm around his waist and prop him up instead. Atsumu twists in his grip to stare at him mutely in disbelief.

“Go on,” murmurs Sakusa, evenly. “Do you want to go to dinner or not? Hm?”

Atsumu gapes at him as the question sinks in like a blade through butter. Is he—is Sakusa _serious_? Of course he is—of course. He’s _always_ being serious, and this surely confirms the sneaking suspicion he’s been having lately that Sakusa’s secretly the crazier one of the two of them after all. He’s just better at hiding it, fuck, and then it makes itself known at the most _inconvenient_ of times like this—

Atsumu swallows down a moan as Sakusa meets his eyes, not a trace of sympathy in his gaze, and shoves his fingers all the way back in.

 _Fuck._ Oh God. God, fucking _fuck_ , this is so bad. He’s going to come. He’s going to come, and there’s _no fucking way_ he’ll be able to stay silent then, and then they’re _both_ screwed, but Sakusa—the absolute lunatic—still isn’t backing down. _Christ_.

He makes a split-second decision as the corners of his vision start sparking with static. Trying to control his breathing, already knowing he’ll be furious with himself for having waved the white flag of his own accord afterwards, Atsumu reaches down and hastily tightens a fist around the base of his cock to halt the orgasm that is quite literally on the cusp of crashing over him as Sakusa’s lips curve into an insufferable smirk against the skin of his shoulder. Damn it— _damn_ it.

“—’m actually busy tonight, Shou-kun,” he manages to call out to Hinata, a little breathless as he balances himself on a knife’s edge. “Thanks for the offer, but y’guys can go without m… without m-me.”

He’d been keeping his voice impressively stable, too. Trust Sakusa to dig into him right then, to massage at his prostate with unpredictable gentleness and bite down hard on his shoulder simultaneously, make his words falter right at their tail end. God, he’s such a massive fucking _jerk_.

“Ah, okay! I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Hinata’s footsteps move away from the booth. Sakusa pulls his fingers out to the first knuckle. “Bye, Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu forces out a slightly strangled “yeah, bye” and then holds his breath desperately as he hears Hinata turn the knob on the bathroom door—the creak of it being pulled open—and then, what feels like an absolutely interminable second later, swing closed with a heavy click. Silence washes over the bathroom again. Sakusa’s fingers slip back into him at once.

“Ngh—ah, _fuck_ ,” Atsumu cries out, wishing he could sound just a touch more outraged, “you’re the worst fuckin’ asshole on this entire fuckin’ planet—” and then he gives in and tugs the hand he’s got around himself now anyway and runs it down the length of his cock just once, and then he’s finally coming, panting harshly as he spills into his fist, bracing himself with the other arm, tightening unwittingly around the three fingers Sakusa’s still got buried inside him with his _stupid_ flexible wrists and his _stupid_ ‘angle control’ and his _stupid_ years of practice. Go to hell, he wants to tell Sakusa, so he does. It comes out a little weaker than he’d intended. Damn.

Sakusa just raises an eyebrow at him as he slowly pulls his fingers free and starts diligently washing his hands under the shower spray. “Why? That sounded like it felt good. It’s not _my_ fault Hinata came to invite you to dinner.”

He emphatically ignores the first part of the statement and turns around gingerly to glower at Sakusa. “Not sure I believe ya.”

“What’s there to ‘believe’? What, do you think I summoned him right when you were about to come? With what exactly?” Sakusa squints at him, his expression and tone equally scathing, though admittedly their sharpness is a little sanded down by the heat-induced flush that’s settled on his damp cheeks. “My _mind_?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Atsumu grouses, aiming a churlish kick at his ankle and missing entirely, his thighs still a little wobbly. Peeved at this sudden awareness of just how boneless his legs actually feel, he leans back against the wall to support his own weight with a huffed groan. The cold touch of the tiles sends a shiver drizzling down his spine. “Now, if ya don’t mind, I _do_ actually have to shower—I didn’t bring my shampoo and shit for decoration, y’know.”

In response, Sakusa looks him up and down once, but doesn’t otherwise budge.

Atsumu sighs. “Would it absolutely kill ya to save the gloatin’ for tomorrow, Omi-kun?”

“I wasn’t going to gloat, I’m not _you_ ,” snaps Sakusa. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then seems to think better of it, leaning down silently to snatch up Atsumu’s shampoo bottle instead and popping open the lid with slightly more passive aggression than it probably deserves. Atsumu just watches him, bemused.

Sakusa rolls his eyes and makes an impatient little gesture with one hand. “Turn around and hold onto the wall again.”

“…Omi, look, as much as I appreciate the—uh—dedication—”

“I’m just trying to help you wash your _hair_ , you idiot,” says Sakusa, his voice curt but not, on the balance of things, entirely unkind. “You won’t have to put as much weight on your legs if you hold yourself up. Just _do_ it, Miya, for God’s sake. I don’t want you complaining tomorrow that it’s my fault you can’t do your insane backwards sets or something.”

…Oh. He wants to—help him with his hair. Sakusa’s offering to help wash his hair.

Well, Atsumu finds himself thinking, a little awed, there’s something you don’t see every day.

Obligingly, he turns around and puts his hands back on the wall, shifting his weight forward. It instantly takes some of the strain out of his legs. “Fingerin’ _and_ a hairwash? Really gettin’ pampered like a king today, aren’t I?”

“What kind of kings are _you_ talking to?” Sakusa mutters, scornfully, but a moment later Atsumu feels the careful touch of long, familiar fingers in his hair, thick with shampoo, lathering up the bubbles with the kind of thorough meticulousness he thought Sakusa only reserved for volleyball and his personal routines. Or sex, he supposes, when he muses on it for a fraction of a second longer—and maybe this is really just a post-sex thing, too.

Anyway, it feels nice. Who cares about the semantics of things? Letting his eyes fall closed again and relaxing under the fastidious press of Sakusa’s hands against his scalp, Atsumu allows himself to mumble a contented, “Thanks.”

He doesn’t get any kind of reaction at first. Atsumu thinks maybe Sakusa didn’t hear him after all over the sound of the shower. But then, in a tone that wouldn’t be considered particularly friendly coming from anyone else but is undeniably leaps and bounds more cordial than the usual childish sort of hostility Atsumu’s become used to between them, he hears Sakusa say, “It’s fine. Now stop moving so much.”

 _Huh_. So maybe Atsumu’s managed to squeeze through a chink in that forbidding aloofness after all. That’s kind of cool, hey.

Sex Championships, he notes down absentmindedly in the back of his brain somewhere, good old Sex Championships _._ Great for sharpening your volleyball play—and also, it seems, for maybe sort of kind of managing to get closer to one frigid Sakusa Kiyoomi. He should really jot this all down somewhere so he has supporting evidence for when he inevitably eggs on one of his friends to go and try all this stuff out with someone too.

“…Maybe I’ll write that Sex Championships handbook after all,” he says out loud, without any context or follow-up. Behind him, not missing a beat—as though at one point or another Atsumu’s non-sequiturs have entirely stopped fazing him—Sakusa just snorts, and then reaches around him to turn up the taps and rinse out the bubbles from his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest horndogs. I do hope you are all doing _exceptionally_ well. Unfortunately, there will definitely not be another chapter until I am fully removed from the looming curse of exams next weekend, and while I, like you, am aware that this statement comes with a fair amount of—shall we say— _déjà vu_ , I do in fact mean it this time. In all earnestness. Truly, please prevent me from doing this again. Like the fools I choose to write about, I too evidently am lacking in any trace of self-discipline and prioritisation ability—but ah, such is the wondrous and tragic existence of the one and only Wig of Hannah Montana.
> 
> Come converse with me (or insult me, or propose to me, et cetera, et cetera) in the comments. Feel no need to hold back in the least, I do love to see what new level of unhingedness we collectively evolve to with every passing chapter. O—and my apologies in advance for the replies—though not really. I am sure by now you must understand precisely what you are opting into.
> 
> Ever yours,  
> Hannah Montana's Wig


	6. 3-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then did you have any alternative suggestions, or were you just trying to stall?”
> 
> “I wasn’t _stallin’_ ,” Atsumu snaps, hackles rising at its grain of truth.
> 
> “Alright, so what’s the suggestion?”
> 
> Um. Well, it’s a good question. He wracks his brain. “…Best of three?”
> 
> That earns him a decidedly sceptical squint. “What is it with you and ‘best of three’, Miya? Is your brain permanently stuck in a high school volleyball match?”

“Okay. Y’ready?”

“I already told you about four times that—Miya, just go. _Yes_ , I’m ready.”

“Well, then, say it!”

“I’m supposed to say it _after_ it’s up, for fuck’s sake, have you never even—”

“If ya say it afterwards then how am I supposed to tell whether you cheated—”

Sakusa makes a noise of immense frustration. “How on earth would I cheat a coin toss when _you’re_ the one tossing it, you absolute—you’ve got to be kidding me—God, _fine_.” He exhales, irked, the sound squeezing short and sharp past clenched teeth. “I’ll call it now, then. Tails. There, you happy? Now toss the damn coin already.”

They’re huddled under the watery fluorescents of the otherwise empty changeroom, Sakusa with his jacket zipped up to his chin and his mask hanging off one ear, Atsumu balancing a hundred-yen coin on the plane of his thumb for the second minute straight. The past 119 seconds of those two minutes have been spent bickering about what exactly the result of the toss will entail—there was a brief interlude to discuss whether it should be a best of three system (“No,” Sakusa had said flatly, and that was that)—but now it looks as though Sakusa’s just about ready to snatch up the coin and hurl it into the air himself, or maybe at Atsumu’s face, whichever will more efficiently remove him from the situation at hand.

“Miya,” Sakusa says, a warning.

Right. Okay. Toss it, right now. Understood.

He flicks his thumb. The coin arcs above their heads, spins like a top; Atsumu reaches out to swipe it out of mid-air and then slam it onto the back of hand with a flourish before carefully peeling away his palm.

They both peer closer to look. It’s—

“ _Yes_!” Atsumu crows, brandishing it under Sakusa’s nose, chortling at the way it crinkles reflexively in distaste. “I win!”

Sakusa bats his hand away. “Congratulations, you have a better track record winning coin tosses than actual rounds. Good for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, snub me all y’like, Omi-kun. Won’t change the fact that I won.”

Smug, he pockets the coin while Sakusa watches him with an air of churlish displeasure. It’s kind of funny, Atsumu thinks absent-mindedly, how Sakusa’s silences stopped feeling _cool_ or _aloof_ somewhere along the line; whether that’s because he’s actually warmed up to Atsumu enough to turn down his own opacity or because Atsumu’s simply improved his comprehension skills, he can’t tell, but that’s really beside the point. The point, of course, being—well—that he sort of thinks this might count as a bit of a win, too. It at least definitely feels satisfying enough to be a—

“Well?” says Sakusa, words a little sulky but his tone serious, never one to try and wriggle out of the rules of the game. “What’ll it be, then?”

Oh. Yeah. Oops. Atsumu grants the matter a cursory evaluation and then decides, mostly on impulse, “I’ll bottom first. That okay with ya?”

“It doesn’t matter, you get to choose. You won. As I’m sure you don’t need reminding.”

“Well, yeah, I know I did.” Atsumu picks his towel up off the bench, slings it over his shoulder, shrugs. “Still. Just askin’.”

Sakusa blinks at him then, something akin to surprise feathering the edges of his expression. He pauses as though not quite sure how to respond. Opts instead for hooking his mask over the other ear and picking up his gym bag to leave. Only then does he finally say, “It’s okay with me.”

Atsumu grins. “Good. Sunday, then?”

A brisk little nod: all business again. “Sunday. Don’t forget to—”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Atsumu cuts in easily. “I’ll be squeaky clean, Omi, I promise. _Everywhere_.” He reaches for his own bag now too, contemplates the soreness in his calves. Hm. Yeah. Enough of a twinge to make it worth asking, probably.

“Hey, Omi-kun. Feel like droppin’ me off at mine on your way?”

* * *

They’d forgotten to discuss the scoring system, of all things.

This oversight actually makes itself known not when Atsumu arrives on Sakusa’s doorstep at half-eight on Sunday evening, freshly showered and smelling of soap—not while he’s washing his hands and Sakusa’s knelt by the fridge neatly lining up the extra onigiri Atsumu’s brought along with him from his visit to Osamu’s in the morning—not even when they actually start kissing, Sakusa pinning his back into the kitchen counter, his hands into its edge. No: it only occurs to Atsumu’s (somewhat arousal-addled) brain when Sakusa lifts calm fingers to rest lightly against his hips, the touch searing right through the cotton of Atsumu’s sweats, and then, without warning, slots a thigh between his legs to press right into his groin.

Atsumu makes a startled noise of pleasure and tears himself away from Sakusa’s lips.

“Omi,” he says, his tongue heavy in his mouth and already tasting of Sakusa’s spearmint toothpaste, “I just—realised—what’re we, um. What’s the—”

“Spit it out,” says Sakusa, entirely task-focused, pressing closer. Atsumu bites back a moan. Takes a beat to steady his voice.

“Y’know, the… how do we know who wins tonight?”

That finally has Sakusa pausing, easing off the pressure of his thigh just a fraction. Atsumu seizes the opportunity to gather his wits and then turns his attention to the small frown now furrowing Sakusa’s brows; the creases of a thought-in-progress.

It takes him a moment to actually vocalise it. “Hm. I suppose you’re also thinking that using the ‘first to come’ metric for tonight is maybe a little”—and here the shadow of a smirk pools at one corner of his lips, dark eyes flitting briefly down between them, where thin fabric does nothing to mask the fact that Atsumu’s rapidly hardening against Sakusa’s leg—“impractical.”

Atsumu huffs. The bait’s being dangled for the plucking but he’s honestly a little too turned on to make any sort of meaningful retaliation. “Yeah. Basically.”

“Then did you have any alternative suggestions, or were you just trying to stall?”

“I wasn’t _stallin_ ’,” Atsumu snaps, hackles rising at its grain of truth.

“Alright, so what’s the suggestion?”

Um. Well, it’s a good question. He wracks his brain. “…Best of three?”

That earns him a decidedly sceptical squint. “What is it with you and ‘best of three’, Miya? Is your brain permanently stuck in a high school volleyball match?”

“Wait, it’s not actually that bad of an idea, okay?” says Atsumu, his switch into Defend For The Sake Of It mode almost automatic at this point. “We can make it the first to two. It kinda makes sense, when y’think about it, and it levels out the playin’ field a bit.” Although—there _is_ one thing that relies on, he supposes—“How’s your refractory period, Omi-kun?”

“My refractory period is just fine, thanks.” Sakusa slants him a look of disparagement and then shifts his weight slightly, brushing Atsumu’s erection again, though it’s slightly less clear this time whether it’s deliberate. Atsumu exhales softly between his teeth and very resolutely ignores the way every muscle in his own thighs tenses in response. He curls his fingers a little tighter around the edge of the counter. Counts to five.

When he drags his eyes back up to Sakusa’s, he’s caught off-guard by the discovery that they’re already watching him. _Scrutiny_ isn’t quite the right word for it; it’s something more candid, less conscious. Still just as intense as every other part of him, though. It’s somehow impossible to look away.

Atsumu swallows. Sakusa’s gaze drops to his throat.

“Fine,” Sakusa finally says, barely above a murmur, already leaning down to press his mouth to Atsumu’s neck. “Best of three. First to two. Have it your way.”

It doesn’t quite _feel_ like Atsumu’s the one having it his way, though, because somehow he’s then the one being angled further back into the counter, blistering with the slow heat of lips being dragged all the way from his collarbone to his Adam’s apple, completely hard when neither of them have shed even a single layer. He can’t be blamed for it, he thinks, not with the relentless way Sakusa’s now grinding down into his cock—as though genuinely intent on getting him off like this, right here in the half-lit kitchen. And the problem isn’t so much that it’s entirely possible (which it is). No: the real problem is that Atsumu’s having difficulty convincing his body that he shouldn’t _want_ it to be.

He makes some vague attempt at reciprocating. Sakusa shifts deftly away from the nudge of Atsumu’s left leg, presses back doubly hard as though in chastisement; the gesture sends a surge of pleasure shivering through him. Atsumu tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling, a move of desperation, trying to wade through the confusing alloy of desire and defensiveness chipping steadily away at his lucidity. And yet it’s all but useless against the sensory onslaught that’s working against him—the open-mouthed kisses at the nape of his neck—the fingers wrapped around his wrists—the rough-edged thrusts against his cock—and he knows he shouldn’t just be brainlessly enjoying this, he can’t, he’s not supposed to be, but—okay, wait, shit, he should— _he should_ —

“Fuck, w… I’m,” he gasps out, a little frantic, “about to—I’ll come if you—”

“Hurry up, then,” Sakusa murmurs against his throat, the words vibrating across Atsumu’s skin, tugging another curse out of him that falters and trips right into an uneven moan. “My leg’s getting tired.” And then recaptures his lips in another deep kiss. Steals the air right out of his chest.

The pleasure’s mounting quicker now, dangerously swift, accelerating. His fingers tighten inadvertently around the counter. Sakusa releases his lips to study his face, smirking a little at whatever it is he sees there: “That good, is it?”

“Yeah, okay, you suck,” Atsumu says through gritted teeth, legs trembling.

“Surely even _you’re_ capable of something more creative than—”

“God, Omi, will ya _shut up_ ,” he pants, “I’m… h-hang on a—I’m seriously gonna—”

Sakusa glares at him. Smoothly slips a hand off his wrist to palm at his cock instead.

“— _ah_ , fuck—!”

His orgasm is as disastrously sudden as it is embarrassingly intense. Atsumu tips his head forward, buries his face into Sakusa’s shoulder, shudders through it while methodical fingers thumb at his hipbones and a triumphant smile curves against the side of his neck. And, to be honest, he can’t even bring himself to reproach Sakusa for being a little puffed-up about it—how long has it been since someone made him come in his pants like this, in what felt like the blink of an eye, pleasure coursing through him with a brutal enough whirl to reduce him to this single-minded _want_ that even threw him off his approximation of a game plan? And to think that of all people, the one responsible for it just _has_ to be—

He lifts his head warily.

“Don’t worry, Miya, I won’t say anything.” Sakusa takes a step backwards, brushes himself off. “I think that spoke for itself, really.”

The beginnings of a groan start to make their way out of Atsumu’s throat—get lodged there—stumble into a muffled sound of chagrin. “Y’know, Omi-kun, y’really do fuckin’ _suck_.”

“So you keep saying.” He turns and starts heading for the bedroom door, undoing his shirt buttons with one hand, a sort of smooth unnerving efficiency about the gesture. Atsumu follows behind and makes every effort to ensure he’s emanating enough surly indignance for it to be palpable to Sakusa’s back.

“Honestly, we probably shouldn’t even count that one,” he declares eventually, when Sakusa makes no move to acknowledge him even when they’ve both paused at the door for Sakusa to swing it open. “I didn’t really know we’d started.”

Sakusa squints at him sceptically, his hand still on the knob. “What are you even talking about? We were kissing, we’d obviously started.”

“Yeah, but—kissin’ is—it’s just _kissin’_!”

“Oh?” A raised eyebrow, partly genuine in its bemusement, barely even a snark. “Are we just doing that part for fun now?”

Atsumu flounders. “Well, I—well, _no_ , but—”

Sakusa rolls his eyes and pushes through the door. “Then it counts. Your tendency to get carried away is _your_ personal problem, not mine.”

“ _Wha_ —I don’t have a _tendency to_ —!” Atsumu storms into the room after him only to stay hovering resentfully in the doorway while Sakusa kneels by his bedside drawer. “I was just—”

Sakusa sighs in annoyance without turning around, pulling open his drawer. “Are you actually going to take your clothes off, Miya, or are you just going to stand there and complain for the rest of the night?”

As a form of protest—because he is a man of principle—Atsumu sustains his silent fuming for a grand total of about three additional seconds before finally reaching for the hem of his shirt to shuck it off. The sweats come off next, dumped in a graceless pile by the door while Sakusa rummages around for the lube and condoms in his drawer.

His _sex_ drawer, Atsumu’s mind supplies helpfully. That’s Sakusa Kiyoomi’s sex drawer that he didn’t get the chance to sneak a proper look at last time. He wanders closer now, disgruntlement mostly dissipating in favour of fresh curiosity as the right bottle gets fished out and Sakusa goes to close the drawer again.

“Omi,” says Atsumu, “wait a sec. Don’t close that yet.”

He’s immediately fixed with an expression of patent suspicion, but the drawer doesn’t close. “…What now.”

“Well, I was just wonderin’ what else you’ve got in there.”

Sakusa seems about as unimpressed by this as Atsumu had expected. “What do you think, Miya? Use your imagination.”

“Yeah, but the point is I don’t wanna,” Atsumu says, leaning closer to peer inside the open crack. “Hey, y’know what—you should let me pick somethin’ out for tonight.”

“And _why_ exactly should I do that?”

“Or maybe we each get to pick somethin’.” He reaches in now, passes a careful hand over satin, plastic, reaches decisively for silicone _. There._ “That’s fair, right? If we both get to pick one to use for this round.”

Sakusa glares at him. “You realise you’re literally just making up rules as you go.”

But—tellingly—he hasn’t made any move to actually bat Atsumu away. Shooting him a cocky smile, Atsumu pulls out the little black plug, turns it over in his palm, feels its weight. “Newsflash, Omi, we’ve been makin’ up _all_ the rules as we go. Where’s the remote for this?”

A charged silence. Atsumu watches and waits. _One, two, three…_

With a clipped sigh, Sakusa dips into the drawer again and all but yanks out the tiny thing, as though he thinks that maybe if he’s quick enough Atsumu physically won’t be able to see him do it. The remote then gets tossed to him in a rather hostile crescent. Atsumu catches it with his empty hand. Nestling it together with the plug between two of Sakusa’s massive pillows for easy access later, he says, “So? Are you gonna pick one too, or is it ‘I only need my own two hands’ for ya today?”

“What kind of a stupid flex is that. There’s no supremacy in not knowing how to incorporate toys into sex properly.” Expression barely flickering, Sakusa draws out a pair of periwinkle nipple suckers and dumps them on top of the bedside with the air of somebody slamming down a poker hand.

Huh. Okay. So out of _everything_ he could’ve chosen—

“Before you ask,” Sakusa says flatly, turning back to him, “yes, I’m sure. Now get on your hands and knees, we’ll be here all night if I don’t prep you now.”

Atsumu snorts and crawls onto the bed as told. “Wow. _Very_ sexy, Omi. How on earth will I ever be able to hold back when you’re talkin’ me up like that?”

“Big words from someone who’s one orgasm away from losing the round,” Sakusa deadpans from somewhere behind him. He hears the snap of a lid being popped open, the slicking up of fingers; tries to tamp down on the tingling anticipation that automatically erupts within him. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me for having mercy on you?”

But in stark contrast to the words a finger is simultaneously brushed over Atsumu’s hole, and it’s only the startle of its relative coolness that makes him realise, abruptly, just how much heat is already rising off his skin. Atsumu shifts to lock his elbows, braces himself in a sturdier stance. Holds his breath as the first unhurried finger pushes in.

“God,” he mutters, exhaling at its measured drag, the way it doesn’t quite seem to end when he expects it to. “…What’re your fingers so fuckin’ long for.”

“Sorry,” says Sakusa, not sounding sorry at all. “But at least you don’t have to be quiet this time.”

Oh, ha- _ha_ , fuck you too, Atsumu wants to tell him, but—almost as though intended as a means to pre-emptively shut him up—the finger inside him curls then, snatching the words right off his lips. It sends a current of blunt pleasure up his spine before withdrawing again, _slowly_ , the sensation somehow bringing with it a dizzy tangle of recollected context cues (slippery tiles; wet hair; clouds of steam) that linger only long enough to flush him all over with a remembered heat.

Atsumu finds himself struck with a sudden and reverent gratefulness for the fact that he’s fresh off the back of an orgasm and restarting from ground zero because. God. That flash of a memory should _not_ be as hot as it is.

Oblivious to his incoherent train of thought, Sakusa starts finger-fucking him in earnest, driving in and out of him with a characteristically ruthless precision. And though they’d joked about something like _mercy_ , it actually doesn’t seem that far off the truth: Atsumu is acutely aware that Sakusa’s more than capable of unravelling him with this alone, but at the moment, both pace and angle almost seem carefully calculated to open him up rather than break him down. Even the stretch of the second finger comes more like a low pleasant burn than an unavoidable jolt towards the edge.

Twisting a little, he looks back curiously at Sakusa: still fully clothed, kneeled on the rumpled sheets, working him open with complete and agonising concentration. “…Hey. Omi.”

The fingers inside him don’t stop moving, fringing his breathing with a ragged edge, but Sakusa does glance up to shoot him an extremely surly scowl. As though daring him to ask the question on his tongue—go on, _really_. “What, Miya.”

Atsumu stares at him for a moment. In the tick of wordless tension, a thick and honeyed desire sears through the pit of his stomach out of nowhere. He feels his face flame, again out of nowhere. Tearing his gaze away from Sakusa, Atsumu turns back to prop himself properly, forcefully swallowing down the sudden wave of arousal consuming his gut. “Uh. Nothin’.”

He doesn’t miss the crabby _tch_ from behind him. Nor does he miss the way that the next finger in is far less clinical, all three curling with intention against his prostate, drawing a tiny muffled whine out of him as he lets his eyes fall closed and his hips rock back slightly. The initial twinge of the stretch ebbs and dissolves into a consciousness of something far needier underlying it. God, there’s—there’s always something distinct in the headiness of being worked open in this way—different to the rush of being relentlessly finger-fucked to completion—the implication of what’s next, maybe, the promise of _more_.

Atsumu opens his eyes hazily, blinks down at the sheets crinkled into his fists. “Omi. That’s fine, that’s—that’s enough.”

The fingers inside him pause. Linger a moment. Then finally slip out of him, slick and slow; Atsumu releases a long breath.

The mattress dips beneath his knees as Sakusa moves to shuffle out of his clothes. “Pass me the condom, I put it on the—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Atsumu says, scrambling into a sitting position, swivelling to face him. “Aren’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”

Sakusa’s expression tells him that rhetorical questions are not at all appreciated in the circumstances.

“Y’know”—Atsumu digs between the pillows to find it— _ah_ , yep, there it is—“this?”

“You want to use that _now_?”

“Well, yeah, when else would we use it?”

“You’re—” An irritable sigh. “Miya. Am I not literally about to fuck you right now?”

Atsumu tilts his head to one side, lifts a brow. “Yeah. So?”

“…You honestly mean you want me to fuck you with that inside me.”

“It’s not even really multitaskin’, Omi-kun,” Atsumu reassures him. “This doesn’t really involve _you_ doin’ anythin’. C’mon, then, your turn. Hands and knees.”

Sakusa doesn’t budge. “And what about mine?”

“Your what?”

“My _pick_ , you idiot.” He nods in the general direction of the bedside drawer. “Surely I should also get to use mine on you now, then.”

So fucking _competitive_ , Atsumu thinks, feeling his lips twist into a reluctant grin. The guy really doesn’t miss a single beat, does he? “Ha. Yeah, sure y’can.” As a show of his grudging acknowledgement, he reaches for the nipple suckers and does Sakusa the favour of putting them on himself, making sure their suction is sufficient to keep them both secure freehand. Then he looks up from his chest to meet Sakusa’s watchful gaze somewhat boastfully.

Sakusa rolls his eyes and finally lowers himself to his hands and knees before him. “What? Do you want a pat on the back or something?”

“How about a simple ‘good boy’?” Atsumu jokes, lubing up his fingers, already prepared to laugh at whatever hot-off-the-press insta-jibe he’ll get in response.

It doesn’t come. Instead he watches in surprise as the curve of Sakusa’s spine tenses for just a barely-there half-second—then relaxes, somewhat effortfully, before he can comment.

“Just get on with it,” Sakusa says, his voice indecipherable. “I told you, we’ll be here all night otherwise.”

Something about his tone forbids any kind of interrogation, so Atsumu stores away the observation to turn over in his mind later, when he’s a touch more lucid, maybe, a little less compromised. He brings his face close to Sakusa’s hole to blow there—the barest wisp of a breath—and delights in the way it flutters in response.

He lifts a finger to the ring of muscle. Presses in, careful; listens for the hitch in Sakusa’s inhale; waits a second before pushing further. It’s a little surreal to have his finger deep inside that heat again, especially given he hadn’t been anticipating it tonight, had been mentally preparing himself only to be rammed up maybe against some wall and fucked to oblivion, not stretching out Sakusa so he can take a vibrating butt plug, the wireless remote of which is safely tucked in Atsumu’s other hand, before they get anywhere even close to that point.

A soft sound from Sakusa shakes him from the ramble of thought. Twisting his finger experimentally to gauge for resistance, Atsumu adds a second as he increases his pace a little. Any lingering tension has completely left Sakusa’s back by now. He has his head bowed, his shoulder-blades gathering into a dip in the plane behind his neck, the beginnings of a blush unfurling from it. He can’t see Sakusa’s face, can’t see the crumple of his expression—but he does wonder, briefly. _Surely_ that’s natural when he’s gotten to see firsthand just how quickly and dramatically Sakusa can come apart from this. His blood’s only red. There’s nothing else to it.

He twists his fingers again and Sakusa releases a muffled noise of pleasure. His shoulder-blades shift. His voice comes out slightly frayed: “…You can put in a third, Miya.”

“No rush,” Atsumu tells him, knowing precisely why—for one of them, at least—there _is_ in fact probably a bit of a rush, and unfortunately not possessing even an ounce of sympathy about it. He wraps his free hand around the back of Sakusa’s leg, thumb dimpling the soft skin of his inner thigh, and runs it up slowly to trace at the line where it meets the curve of his ass. He sees Sakusa’s head drop minutely lower; hears the spill of a shaky little huff of breath over lips that didn’t quite manage to gate it.

He only adds the third finger when the flush has spread far enough from Sakusa’s neck to be visible across his shoulders and the top of his back. It easily slips past the slick ring of muscle, sinking straight into the swallow of heat, and he catches the groan it drags out of Sakusa—savours it smugly for a moment before starting to fuck into him in earnest, without warning, hard and fast.

The back end of Sakusa’s groan stutters into a gasp as his elbows abruptly buckle beneath him. Atsumu watches, mesmerised, as he splays a palm across the sheets to prop himself up, loses his grip against the sweat-dampened fabric, bites out a curse and then settles instead for just burying his cheek into the bed, the slope of his back a long, steep decline, a subtle heave beneath it. Its rhythm snags as Atsumu massages at the nub he can feel beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s much easier to see Sakusa’s cock now that he’s curved like this; no room for mistaking how hard it is, how acutely he must be feeling every tiny movement of Atsumu’s fingers inside him by now.

Sakusa twists his neck to look back at him, something urgent to the gesture.

“That’s enough,” he says, “you can put it in now.”

“Yeah? Y’sure?” Atsumu asks him, tone pleasant, ramming his fingers all the way back in.

Sakusa breathes sharply. His palms press harder into the sheets. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure—Miya, I swear to god—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll put it in right this second. Christ. _Bossy_.” Withdrawing his fingers at last, smirking at the way Sakusa somewhat shakily adjusts his stance, Atsumu slicks up the butt plug and gives it a quick once over in his hand to check that it’s warm enough before pressing it to Sakusa’s hole. It clenches for a moment, anticipating breach, then relaxes all at once as he presses a little harder. The tip of the plug slips through; a tremor runs up Sakusa’s spine.

Atsumu doesn’t pause, just continues to push in at a snail’s pace, letting the ring of muscle loosen little by little around the silicone. When it’s flush against skin, he carefully lets go and then sits back on his calves, leaning to one side to make out Sakusa’s face. “Okay—it’s in. You all good?”

He only gets a tight nod in response. The shallow downbeat of Sakusa’s breathing tells him everything he needs to know anyway— _maybe a little too good, huh, Omi-kun_ , Atsumu wants to tease—but he’s always been better at doing than saying, so he holds the words back and thumbs at the button of the remote in his palm instead.

He’d expected a gentler thrum than the vibrations that he hears immediately kick up in response, and from Sakusa’s jolted cry he guesses it feels as intense as it sounds. “ _Fuck!_ Miya!”

Atsumu fumbles to switch it off, drops it off the edge of the bed instead. “Oops, my bad—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sakusa manages to say, the words stumbling into one another, more a single slurred sound than three distinct syllables. “Turn it— _hah_ —will you hurry up and—”

“Yep, yep, I know, just gimme a—”

He finally turns it off.

Sakusa releases a low, unsteady sigh, tinged with something like relief, before slowly turning over to kneel on the bed, glowering at him. And—if Atsumu’s tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip at the sight of him, well. He’s not above admitting that there’s something kind of hot about the way Sakusa’s valiantly sustaining that look of indignance despite the heavy rise and fall of his breath and the deep flush dusting his entire face and upper chest.

Atsumu grins at him. “What was that about ‘mercy’?”

“Oh, will you shut up,” Sakusa snaps, which Atsumu thinks is pretty ballsy given how flagrantly red he is all over, “fine. We’re even. But I won’t be doing you any more favours.”

“Well, good, ‘cause I won’t be, either.” Atsumu shuffles closer and then taps him twice on the jut of his hipbone. “Sit back on the pillows, Omi-kun, so I can take ya for a—”

“If you even dare to finish that sentence,” says Sakusa, propping his back up against the headboard and reaching over to pick the condom off the bedside table, “I’ll kick you out, Miya, I’m not kidding.”

Atsumu flashes him another grin, taking the proffered packet to tear it open breezily between his teeth. He wraps a hand around Sakusa’s cock—only just managing to contain a comment on the way it twitches at his barest brush—then rolls the condom onto it carefully. And despite both of their claims that there’s to be no more leniency in this round, Atsumu grants Sakusa the one final indulgence of giving himself the once-over with lube, keeping his own touch strictly limited to the hold he still has around the base until Sakusa draws his slicked-up hand away and looks up at him with an exhale: “Alright.”

The word toes that delightful line between clean composure and guarded wariness. Atsumu swings a leg over Sakusa’s thighs and rises to his knees again to line himself up, then starts sinking down onto his cock at last, his stomach clenching with the effort of doing so as slowly as humanly possible. “Am I sensin’ some—ah, _fuck_ —nerves there, Omi-kun?”

“Concentration, actually,” Sakusa says, his voice low as Atsumu bottoms out and then pauses there a moment to steady his centre of gravity, “but sense whatever you like, I suppose. It makes no difference to me what you call it in your head.”

“…Ha. Right.” And—uh—what were they specifically talking about again? Fuck, Sakusa Kiyoomi is completely inside him right now, holy _shit_. Holy shit, he feels so good. This has no right to feel as good as it does. “…Sure.”

Sakusa’s eyes flick up to meet his now, a flash of self-satisfied mirth passing through them in a glitter, disorienting in its juxtaposition with the glow of his flush, the pant of his breath. Atsumu holds his gaze as he rocks forward on Sakusa’s cock—watches unconcealable arousal chase out that fleeting streak of amusement—feels before he sees two cool hands settle firmly around his waist.

They feel nice against his skin, fuck. Atsumu rocks forward again, once, and then lifts almost entirely off Sakusa’s cock before dropping all the way back as he clenches down around him hard.

Sakusa swears. The grip around his waist tightens. And when Atsumu lifts himself up again, both hands simultaneously tilt him swiftly backwards—just a few degrees—so that when he’s rammed back down into Sakusa’s cock it’s his prostate that’s pulled flush against the tip, the intensity of the sudden pressure almost staggering, his toes curling and eyes fluttering closed as he abruptly stills himself to brace against the heady rush of pleasure that wracks through the pit of his stomach and ripples out to all his extremities.

“God,” Atsumu breathes. He drops his chin to his chest and huffs out a slightly overwhelmed laugh as Sakusa starts dragging a hand up and down his back now, igniting the pathway below his fingers. “Gimme a—just one sec, Omi.”

“Okay. One,” Sakusa murmurs, lifting an eyebrow at Atsumu’s startled snort in response. “What? Isn’t that the kind of thing you’d say?”

He—well. “Fair enough,” he admits, and then by way of concession starts rocking back and forth again, careful not to stimulate his own prostate too much in the process. It’s a bit of a tightrope-walk, frankly: the way Sakusa fits into him like this is so absurdly, exceedingly pleasurable that it almost feels like some giant middle finger (euphemism unintended) from a universe that _really_ doesn’t seem to want him to win this thing.

Without warning, Sakusa lifts his back off the pillows then, clipping the thought midway. “Playing it safe doesn’t really suit you, Miya.”

Atsumu stares down at him, caught in the light. “…What?”

By way of reply, Sakusa winds both arms all the way around his waist and then thrusts up into him sharply; Atsumu chokes back a moan, his hands flying up to grip onto Sakusa’s shoulders, entirely unthinking. “ _Fuck_ —”

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” Another well-aimed thrust, laced with that same bullish determination. “If you’re trying to make it feel good for me”—and another one, fuzzing the perimeter of Atsumu’s vision with star showers—“you have to accept that it’ll probably end up feeling good for you as well.”

“Jesus Christ, Omi,” Atsumu gasps out, reaching up past the nape of Sakusa’s neck to fist a handful of his hair, “you’re fuckin’ brutal, you know that?”

“Hm. Is that a white flag?”

“Ha!” Grinding down into his lap, Atsumu ducks his head to suck a kiss into the line of Sakusa’s jaw. “You _wish_.”

“Cocky as always. Your Achilles’ heel, Miya.” There’s a hand trailing its way up his chest. And yet Atsumu doesn’t fully register what it’s doing until he feels a tug at his nipple—even then, it takes another beat for the entirety of the realisation to actually hit, the time lag of his brain not quite catching up until the pinch on his nipples shifts, and then loosens, and then releases suddenly.

…Ah. Shit. He’d forgotten about those.

Sakusa tosses the suckers aside and then watches intently as Atsumu reels at the heightened brush of air against his chest. It’s been a while since he’s had suckers used on him, and his nipples feel about as swollen and sensitive as he might’ve expected, had it not… totally slipped his mind they were there at all. He’d been so focused on controlling the heady hedonism of fucking himself on Sakusa’s cock that everything else had sort of snuck out of the spotlight in the meantime. Fucking _tunnel vision_ , seriously.

Sakusa leans over to blow lightly onto one nipple. Damp heat coils against Atsumu’s chest. A traitorous shudder immediately runs through him, his breath hitching as Sakusa only parts his lips a little wider, tongues at the nipple briefly, and then closes his mouth around it entirely to start licking at it in earnest.

His nipple catches between Sakusa’s teeth. Atsumu groans and clenches around Sakusa, a mostly unintentional reflex. All at once he’s reminded with a rush of dismay of how good this asshole is with his mouth—how all too easy it is to get drunk on his kissing—how assertive every swipe and flick and press of his tongue is, always. God fucking damn it. Of _course_ he’d been sure of his choice with these. Of course. As if Atsumu had been the only one thinking about his—pick…

His pick. His—for fuck’s sake, he has one too, doesn’t he.

Mentally cursing his own one-track mind for the dozenth time tonight, trying to keep at bay for just another moment the fog of dizzy pleasure threatening to flood through every inch of his brain, Atsumu reaches down blindly and manages to close a hand around the remote he’d dropped into the mattress beside himself at some point throughout all this. He barely pauses for thought before thumbing at the _on_ button again; doesn’t startle this time at the thrum of the fierce vibration that kicks up at his command.

Sakusa’s lips falter around his nipple at once. His hips jerk up involuntarily into Atsumu instead, making them both groan breathlessly above the buzz of the plug now filling the room.

“Miya,” Sakusa mumbles into his chest, voice unsteady, his words wavering as he brings a hand to fiddle with Atsumu’s other nipple. “This—you… you’re not— _fuck_. This isn’t…”

Atsumu doesn’t let him finish. “It is, actually, Omi-kun. Nothin’ unfair about it at all.” He rolls his hips forward and stifles the moan that rises in his own throat, thinking emphatically about anything but the relentless flickers of electricity that race down his spine at every brush of Sakusa’s fingers against his flushed nipples. “Besides—you’re the one who bought somethin’ with only one settin’ that just so happens to be the strongest vibration known to humankind when y’know you’re sensitive back there—”

“Well, Miya, there are times when you just want to shove a plug up yourself and come quickly,” Sakusa grouses, fucking up into him harder now, seemingly having recovered from the initial fluster of the unanticipated play, “and the potential for a sex competition where I’d want to be holding off for as long as possible didn’t exactly factor into my purchasing decision back then, shockingly enough—”

“Sucks to be you, then, I guess,” says Atsumu gleefully, as Sakusa’s expression caves into one of unconcealable arousal at last. There’s some sort of half-attempt to mask it with a glare.

“I know you’re close too,” Sakusa bites out, twisting one of Atsumu’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger. “And, unlike you, I only have to get you there one more time to win.”

Honestly, Atsumu only vaguely comprehends the logic behind the jibe. He feels almost delirious with pleasure. Something about the feverish back-and-forth—barely anything of substance left in their quips, hurled mostly for the sake of it at this point—is inexplicably intoxicating, his brain feeling just as caught up in the whirl of heat between them as his body, every cell in him giddy with the hunger to win, to win every _part_ of this. He presses close to Sakusa, swears he can feel the plug’s vibration lick its way across to his own skin. “Go on,” he says, “you first, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa fixes him with a look of pure belligerence. “I don’t think so,” he says—and then drops one of his hands from Atsumu’s nipple to his cock standing hard and heavy between them, wrapping it in a firm grip around the base and then giving it one decisive upwards stroke, thumb catching on the underside of the head, precum spilling onto his fingers as Atsumu’s cock reacts to the unexpected touch by immediately flushing him from head to toe with an incandescent wave of pleasure.

And—Christ. What could he possibly do against that, really.

“ _Ngh_ —hah, shit, _shit_ , fuck you _so_ fuckin’ much,” Atsumu manages to choke out, before he’s coming in hot spurts onto Sakusa’s stomach and hand, moaning helplessly as he tightens around Sakusa and takes him in as deep as he possibly can and all but drags the orgasm out of him before he’s even finished stumbling through his own. There: the indubitable pulse of Sakusa’s cock inside him, the full-body shudder, the tension that tightens the full length of his shoulders. It doesn’t change the result, obviously. But there’s still a sort of gratification in knowing that neither of them could hold out _completely_.

Sakusa pants into his collarbone, “Miya. Can you—”

He’s very barely just started to recollect his lucidity, but Atsumu’s quick enough to catch on. “Oh, shit, yeah, sorry.”

The remote’s still in his hand; it only takes him a second to switch it off. Sakusa relaxes visibly once the vibrations fade, shifting his weight slightly backwards so he can reach over for a tissue and clean off his hand and stomach. It’s only a cursory wipe-down by Sakusa Kiyoomi’s usual standards, but Atsumu knows that’s only because he’ll be disappearing straight into the shower as soon as he untangles himself for a proper scrub.

Feeling the edge of his lips quirk up at the thought, Atsumu lifts himself gingerly off Sakusa to let him dash to the bathroom, scooting off the edge of the bed to get to his feet. His legs are shakier than he’d presumed—he wobbles a little before steadying himself with a hand on the bedside—laughing without guise, not sheepish in the least. “Whoops. Well, they say it’s evidence of a good time or somethin’, right?”

“Mm. I suppose it was,” says Sakusa, not making any move to help as he watches on, largely unsympathetic, from the bed. “You were admittedly decent at that.”

There’s something funny about the whole situation. Atsumu can’t quite pin what it is precisely. “Even though you won?” he jokes, the chagrin of it mellowed still by the afterglow of a _very_ good orgasm, all the ‘decent’ bullshit aside.

Sakusa raises an eyebrow at him. The transparently feigned dispassion of it somehow just adds to the unearthly comedy of the exchange. “Even though I won. And am winning.”

“For now,” Atsumu corrects habitually, then waves his hand in a lazy gesture towards the door. “Don’t you wanna shower first?”

The raised eyebrow climbs higher up Sakusa’s brow. “You’re in an oddly considerate mood for somebody who just lost.”

“Well, maybe I’m just thinkin’ long game already. It’s not all about one point here or one point there, y’know?”

“Yes, obviously _I_ know, I just wasn’t aware that Miya Atsumu was also familiar with that concept.”

“Oh, ha- _ha_. Look, if you don’t shut it I’m gonna beat ya to the shower, Omi-kun, and I won’t even feel a bit bad about it. You’d deserve it.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes and shuffles out of bed. The pink is dwindling from his skin now, but a faint sheen of sweat still coats him all over, evidence of a victory earned. “I don’t think so, Miya. The winner always gets to shower first.”

“The fuck?! Since when was that a thing?”

Padding towards the door, Sakusa pauses only long enough to shoot him a haughty look of disparagement that’s discernibly more insincere than their usual equivalents. It’s the easy self-assurance of a person who knows they’re good enough to win it all, or something like that. Atsumu’s used to seeing that particular cloak around Sakusa’s shoulders on the court, but it’s a pretty good look on him in the bedroom, too, he thinks. Not that that observation’s necessarily one he’ll be sharing anytime soon.

“Since now,” says Sakusa from the doorway, utterly unperturbed by his own ridiculousness, a subtle kind of brazenness to him that’s always just been less _obvious_ than Atsumu’s, though not actually any less _present_. “Apparently, Miya, we get to make up new rules for this thing as we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest horndogs. I am alive!
> 
> First and foremost, please accept my sincerest apologies for disappearing without a trace for almost two months. You see, I would have written sooner, but in fact, I did not want to. :---)
> 
> But—horndogs—I am very pleased to inform you that it seems we are in the final stretch. For the first time since this cursed publication commenced, I have in my possession what more disciplined authors than I may call 'a Plan'. It is admittedly only about four dot points in length, so the level of detail is… somewhat wanting, to say the least. I am also known to be rather flighty, so my love of the Plan may dwindle and every one of those four dot points may change in due time. And of course, as usual, I make no promises, I cannot guarantee quality, et cetera, et cetera.
> 
> I am, however, admittedly very excited for the following chapter, so what I _can_ tentatively promise is that another two month intermission does not await you. Thank you kindly to those who expressed their concerns for my wellbeing given my Vanishing Act. I wish I had better means to communicate with you my ongoing existence, but that shall have to wait.
> 
> Share with me the full deranged contents of your thoughts in the comments. I have missed you more dearly than I can express in an Author's Note, dear horndogs. You each uniquely bring me great joy. I hope that in return this chapter has brought to you an appropriate level of horn.
> 
>  _Tadaima kaerimashita_ ,  
> Hannah Montana's Wig


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